


To Live And Love In Hell

by kally77



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, IDW Angel Comics, M/M, Slavery, Time-Shifts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 19:23:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kally77/pseuds/kally77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starts from the premise of After the Fall then deviates from canon. Spoilers for the entire comics.<br/>Co-lord of LA Spike brings home a boy and tries to figure out why he smells so familiar. Illyria's random time-shifts help - somewhat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Live And Love In Hell

It was two years after LA descended into Hell that Spike acquired his new pet.

He’d gone to the slave auction for the same three reasons he always did: 

Confirm to any demon that doubted it that he _was_ one of the lords of LA (co-lord, to be technical, but her Blueness didn’t leave the compound very often anymore). As long as they thought he was one of them, they didn’t poke their ugly noses into his business.

Acquire any human that didn’t look too irremediably damaged. Spider always made fun of him about it, calling him Mother Theresa amongst other things, but she and his other ladies helped bring the slaves he bought back to the world of humanity. Or at least, they tried to. It didn't always work. Mercy killings were sometimes necessary.

And finally, look for the people he had lost. He knew where Lorne was, and when things got too grim, he went and visited him for a few hours. He knew where Illyria was too – he bloody well knew where she was at any moment of the day, or what passed as day in Hell. But everyone else he had known was gone. Wesley… well, he had been gone before Hell opened for them all. He had heard that Gunn had fangs, now, though he had never run across him. He sort of hoped he never would. So really, there was only one person Spike was looking for – though he’d have torn out his own heart rather than admit it to anyone. 

Part of him didn’t believe that Angel would ever let himself be caught by slave traders. He’d die fighting first, same as Spike would have. But Spike had looked everywhere, had listened for every bit of news he could find, and had never even heard Angel’s name pronounced. If someone had taken him down, surely they would have shouted it for all to know.

The stench of the crowd in the arena was overwhelming, unwashed and soiled bodies, terror and pain, all familiar by now. All nauseating. Still, Spike forced himself to breathe in and out as he walked through the lines of carefully lined up cages, large ones for groups of quivering, crying humans that were little more than cattle, smaller ones for prized specimens. 

His mind filtered through the scents, searching for one in particular. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to find it or not; wasn’t sure he wanted to see Angel behind bars. He’d have a cage for himself, certainly, the top too low to allow him to stand straight, the bars solid steel, soldered close enough together that he wouldn’t be able to pass a hand through, but the openings large enough for his owner to poke him with a stick or cattle prod. 

Spike had been to dozens of these things, had watched hundreds of slaves be paraded on the dais, their teeth exposed, their training demonstrated for potential buyers. He’d bought too many of these poor sods. But he’d never caught a whiff of Angel’s scent.

Not until that day.

His hand was up before he could even see the end of the leash the trader held. Two other bids had come through when he finally laid eyes on someone who was much too young and much too human to be Angel. Someone who smelled just like him. Someone whose eyes were blue-gray, wounded, desperate – with no spark of hope or defiance left in them.

If not for that scent, Spike would have let that slave go to another bidder. He’d have used his money to buy half a dozen other slaves, the ones who could still be saved. But Spike couldn’t ignore that boy’s scent. 

The leash had never felt so heavy in his hand.

***

“Just one, today?”

Arms crossed over her ample chest, Spider tilted her head to watch Spike approach with his new acquisition. The ladies that had been sparring around her stopped and turned, curious as always to see what - _whom_ \- he had brought back.

“Yeah, just the one.” He wanted to drop the leash, like he usually did, and let them deal with the mess of it all. He couldn’t do that, though, not this time, not if he wanted answers.

His fingers twitching on the bit of leather, he stopped and turned back. The boy had stopped the same way he had walked, just two steps behind him, head and bare shoulders bowed so that he looked five inches smaller than he truly was – not that he was all that tall to begin with. He never let the leash grow taut between the collar at his neck and Spike’s hand. The collar was tight enough that his Adam’s apple made it dance every time he swallowed; the skin behind it was red and irritated, like the bit of leather had been in place for far too long. His hair was filthy, almost long enough to brush his shoulders, and his bangs would have hid his face if he had looked up – which he hadn’t done, not since the handle of a bullwhip pressed under his chin had forced him to. 

He had knelt on the floor in the car rather than sit. Spike had long ago admitted it was useless to demand anything on that first trip home. It took time before the slaves understood that they weren’t slaves anymore – if they ever did understand. Even now, a year and half after he had freed her, the very first girl Spike had brought home like this still fell to her knees and started shaking uncontrollably any time she saw him. At least her scent was gratefulness, now, rather than fear. Small mercies.

“He’s a scrawny thing.” Spider stepped around the boy, observing him from his grimy, bare feet to the torn shorts that were his only clothing before reaching for his back with one hand – though without touching him; she knew better than that. “He’s been beaten badly. All healed, though.”

Spike nodded absently, but kept for himself what the trader had said to encourage higher bids – the boy was human, but he healed as fast as vampires did. Which meant that the lattice of scars on his back was a few days old at most. Or rather, the most recent scars were. Spike hadn’t been able to figure out how many layers were imprinted on the boy’s back, a record to his breaking and training. He didn't really need to know - nor did he want to.

When she stopped by Spike’s side in front of the boy, Spider placed a single, red-tipped nail beneath his chin and tilted his head up. The boy started trembling and his eyes widened as they flew between her and Spike.

“Hey there, sweets. You’ve got a name?”

The only answer Spider received was a blink before the boy folded down to his knees, bow arched like a cat waiting to be petted – except, unless Spike was really off his mark, it wasn’t a gentle hand the boy was expecting.

“You blew all your money on him?” Spider asked, looking at Spike through dark, unreadable eyes. “You usually have a better eye than that. What are we supposed to do with him? Even if you’re trying to be a saint we’re not miracle workers here.”

Spike bristled. Absentmindedly, he twisted the leash around his fingers until a small, choked off noise made him realize his mistake. He’d have dropped the thing altogether if he had thought he could make the boy take two steps without it. He was like one of those trained warhorses of old, conditioned to stop and stand still should the bridle slip from their master’s fingers.

“ _You_ won’t have to do anything with him,” he said as he let the leash grow slack again. “I’ll deal with this.”

Spider’s eyes narrowed. Spike could feel the heaviness of her gaze on him as he leaned down and clasped the boy’s shoulder. He ignored the way he trembled beneath his touch and drew him up with a quiet, “There you go, pet. That’s a good boy.”

His hand came up stained with dried blood and filth, and it was all Spike could do not to wipe it on his pants. He’d wash it – and the boy – soon enough.

“You’ll _deal_ with this,” Spider repeated, and a snicker punctuated her words. “Right. Of course. I should have known sooner or later you’d find a _pet_ you’d want to keep.”

Spike’s head whipped toward her, and it was through the golden eyes of the demon that Spike glared at her. She was extremely still, suddenly, and so were the women around them that had walked closer during Spider’s inspection. They’d rarely seen Spike angry – and each time they had, his anger had been followed by a death.

“You’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,” he growled at her, and somehow the way she flinched back was both rewarding and fully inadequate. “And don’t ever let me hear you _imply_ again that I’d rape anyone. Or I’ll rip those arms of yours one by one and then have Illyria shift you back in time just so I can do it again.”

He held her gaze a few seconds longer, letting her know he meant every word, then pushed by her, the boy instantly falling into step with him. He didn’t shift back to his human face until he had closed the double doors of his quarters behind them.

***

Pulling the boy into the en-suite bathroom wasn’t any harder than leading him had been so far. Getting him to slide out of his dirty shorts only required a word – “Undress” – although Spike did add a ‘please’ after it. It’d take a while before the boy realized he had choices, but Spike supposed he could start with politeness.

What did pose problem was Spike’s attempt to take off the collar from the boy’s neck. As soon as he reached for the metal buckle on the side of his throat, the boy started whimpering, the acrid scent of fear suddenly pouring out of him when it had been no more than a trickle before. He’d been trembling so far but utterly quiet and still.

“Your skin will never heal if we don’t take this thing off,” Spike said, trying to keep his voice calm when all he wanted was to snap. He could all too well imagine that the boy had been taught that bad things happened when his collar was removed, regardless of whoever did the removing. Damn, but he hated slave traders. He’d done many things before the soul, but he dared hope they’d all burn in the other hell, the one that wasn’t so pleasant, before he did.

When the boy had calmed down, Spike tried again. As soon as he tugged at the buckle however, the boy fell down to his knees, then folded onto himself, covering his head with his arms.

Spike sighed and sat down on the closed toilet. He’d have given his soul for a cigarette. “Right. I’m sure you love that collar. Sentimental value and all that, huh?”

After a moment, the boy was silent again, but he remained curled up, his body tense and waiting - for blows and punishment, no doubt. Spike reached for the snap of the leash. That, at least, he managed to pull off. He’d work on the collar another time.

“Com’ on, then, pet. Up you go.” 

A gentle hand curled around the boy’s biceps coaxed him up. He kept his head bowed, but even so Spike could see that his eyes were tightly shut. 

“That’s a good boy,” he crooned, keeping his rage tightly contained. “Into the shower now. There you go.”

The tiles beneath the boy’s feet had to be cold, but he didn’t react, and merely stood there, head down, never reaching for the water controls. Of course not. Spike wanted to call himself a fool for hoping for more.

He closed the glass door, leaving it open just enough that he could reach for the controls from outside. “It’s going to be cold at first,” he warned. “You might want to step back while it warms up.”

The boy didn’t move. Spike didn’t make him. Choices and all that. It didn’t have anything to do with how warm the boy was whenever Spike touched him, or how long it had been since Spike’s hands had done anything other than deal blows. Nothing to do either with Spider's words, or the bleak memory of another bathroom.

He turned on the water, and shivered right along with the boy when the first cold wave hit. “Told you,” he muttered, but did not receive an answer. He kept his hand under the water until it warmed up, checking that it didn’t get too hot. He had a feeling the boy might stand under scalding water without protest.

Through the narrow opening, he could see grime beginning to slide down his chest and legs, leaving trails on skin that might once have been golden but now seemed too pale. It would take scrubbing to get all the dirt and blood off, though. “I s’ppose it’s useless asking you to wash up, hey pet?”

Spike reached for the showerhead and angled it higher, so that it hit the top of the boy’s head rather than his chest. In seconds, the hair was plastered over his head and forehead, though he never moved or tried to clear his face. He'd need a proper shampoo, but a good soak would do for now. 

“Try not to drown,” Spike sighed. “I haven’t even asked why you smell like Angel yet.”

It was no more than a flicker, gone in a blink, but Spike was sure he hadn’t imagined that flash of blue eye, half hidden behind a curtain of hair, rising to him. He held back a smile. It was a start.

***

Without soap and scrubbing, there was only so much hot water could do, and Spike was _not_ going to climb in that shower. He ran a bath while keeping an eye on the shower, never seeing so much as the beginning of a gesture through the opaque glass. When he turned off the water and helped the boy out and to the tub, though, his skin was flushed pink with heat, and his shoulders weren’t as tense as they had been minutes earlier. He sat in the water at Spike’s prompting, tilted his head out and closed his eyes. Sitting on the edge of the tub, Spike dumped half a bottle of shampoo on his head, and proceeded to wash his hair.

“Don’t know why I’m doing this,” he muttered, his fingers digging into the boy’s scalp to dislodge dirt. “Should have let them clean you out. They’re used to this. I'm supposed to be the bloody lord of this place.”

But in truth, he did know why he was doing this. Either Angel’s scent was at the surface of the boy’s skin, or it was deeper than that. It was just the first bit of information Spike wanted – needed – to gather.

By the time he had scrubbed and rinsed the boy’s hair twice and run a washing cloth over him, careful of the marks on his back and of the sleeping cock between his legs, Spike knew that the boy hadn’t just come in contact with Angel, brushed against him in a cage or something – but that bit of knowledge only raised more questions. Now if Spike could only figure where to start…

“Looking tired, pet,” he murmured when he noticed the boy’s eyelids were fluttering closed every few seconds before snapping open again. “Maybe you should—”

_Shift_

“—spend the night, luv.”

Spike blinked, and still the scene in front of him didn’t change. A second ago, he’d been in his bed, with a warm and contented Slayer at his side. And now he was in a bathroom – and there was a baby in the bathtub.

Without thinking, he reached in, pulled the brat out before he could drown, and was rewarded by ear-splitting crying. His lungs were fine, all right, Spike thought, grimacing, as he awkwardly held out the baby in front of him. But now what? There was something wrong here, and it wasn’t just the kid in the bathtub and the blatant lack of naked Slayer at his side. He could have sworn he knew where he was, it was just on the tip of his tongue, and if he thought hard enough—

_Shift_

—damn but some days he really wanted to kill Illyria. Like for example when he found himself at eye-level with the boy’s crotch as he stood in the tub, water no higher than his shins when a moment ago—

Spike shook his head, chasing the image of that baby away, or the feel of the Slayer’s skin beneath his fingers. His cock twitched painfully inside his jeans and his hands tightened on the boy’s slim hips. 

Letting go of the boy as though it were holy water dripping from his body, Spike stood and turned away, taking deep breaths that didn’t help anything. After dozens, _hundreds_ of time shifts, the return to the present was still as confusing, old thoughts and emotions lingering long after the shift had ended.

The only reason Illyria was still alive – other than the fact that she could kick Spike's ass without trying all that hard – was the fact that she wasn’t shifting time on purpose. As far as he could tell, she did it whenever a memory of sweet little Fred popped into her slightly deranged blue head. She reminded him of Dru, at times, and that didn’t help anything.

What he had never managed to figure out was why she so often shifted back to the turn of the previous century. Those shifts only happened when they were alone and he strongly suspected that they were deliberate. He couldn’t fathom what she’d want with William, before or after his turning. She always gave him blank looks when he asked, as though she couldn't understand English - or as though he were too insignificant for her to answer.

He was calmer when he came back to the tub, a large towel in his hands. The boy was still in the water, now shivering.

“Silly boy,” Spike muttered, and regretted it instantly when the boy shook harder as though the words were prelude to blows. “Get out of there, then. And you’ll have to dry yourself, I’m not your bloody nurse.”

He had to take the boy’s arm to make him get out of the tub. After pushing the towel into his hands, Spike walked away again, cursing quietly. He hated those shifts from that year before the soul more than most, couldn’t stand how hard he always was, afterwards, or how much he needed to—

He froze while digging through a drawer full of pants – there was a pair of sweats somewhere in there, he was sure of it – and turned back toward the bathroom, although he couldn’t see the boy from where he was. 

The year before the soul. 

That had been four years earlier.

How could the boy have been nothing more than an infant four years earlier?

Frowning, Spike returned to his search, finally finding the sweats. He brought them and a t-shirt to the bathroom, where the boy had not only dried himself but also folded the towel and placed it on the edge of the tub. He was now kneeling, hands at his back and head bent low. One step forward, one step back. The dance promised to be long - and frustrating.

“Gonna need to relearn how to be human and fast, pet,” Spike said as he considered him. “Human, or whatever it is you are. ‘Cause the more I look at you, the more questions I have, and I’ve never been all that patient.”

***

Despite the many questions Spike had, he figured he wouldn’t be getting answers if the boy fell asleep in the middle of the interrogation. He’d get him in bed, he decided, and then try to figure out what had set off Illyria. The time shift hadn’t lasted long, which meant she couldn’t be all that upset, but he would rather be sure than have a nasty surprise later.

Getting the boy in bed, however, wasn’t all that easy. Spike wanted to kick himself; he should have expected as much.

The word ‘bed’, he quickly realized, must have been drilled into the boy’s mind until the meaning shifted from ‘rest’ to something far less innocent. With gritted teeth, he coaxed the boy back into the sweatpants he had discarded in record time. The tenting in the front would have been lovely – if it hadn’t been accompanied by a burst of sheer terror in his scent. Spike rubbed his nose with the back of his hand at the bitterness of it. That scent, mixed with Angel’s, was just _disturbing_. Once upon a life, he would have felt vindictive joy at this same smell. Now, it made him want to retch.

“Let’s try that again.” Swallowing a sigh, he pushed lightly at the boy’s shoulder, directing him to the bed but without saying the word again. “You’re going to lie down like a good boy and rest. Can you do that, pet?”

Spike didn’t actually expect an answer, but neither did he expect the boy’s knees to fold when he reached the bed so that he was kneeling in front of it, head bent down again. The fear wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was his erection, it seemed.

“Oh for fuck’s sake…”

Grabbing his arms, Spike tried to pull him up and onto the bed, only to be met by another burst of terror. He let go and the boy crouched even lower this time, his back curled, rounded like a cat’s – but the whimper rising from him was anything but a purr.

Remembering the folded towel he had found when coming back to the bathroom, Spike decided to try another approach. He pulled the downy comforter off the bed and dumped it over the boy’s head before dropping the pillows next to him as well.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he told the trembling mountain of cotton and down feathers. “If you don’t like the floor, you can still climb on the mattress. Up to you.”

Crossing his arms, Spike waited for a few moments, but when he walked out of the room the boy still hadn’t moved from beneath the comforter. Hopefully, he’d get some sleep. Spike doubted he would get on the bed, though. They would work on that another time. 

He closed the door behind him and stilled when he saw that Spider was leaning against the wall on the other side of the corridor. He bared his teeth at her in what could almost have passed for a grin.

“Came to make sure I wasn’t molesting him?” he asked, practically growling.

She flinched. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Yes you did.”

He held her gaze until she looked away, her nod so shallow he could have missed it.

“I did. But I’m still sorry. I know you wouldn’t.” She looked back at him, straight in the eyes. “Maybe once, but not now.” Her face split on a tentative grin. “And I know you wouldn’t kill me, either.”

Spike didn’t reply. He didn’t _want_ to kill her, but that didn't mean he wouldn't. They both remembered a time shift toward the past during which he had been crazed enough by his brand new soul to reveal much more than he wished he had. However, he was the only one who carried the memory of a time shift to the future in which Spider’s blood had still been warm on his hands and on the blade he carried. He had never told her why he didn’t want her in his bed anymore, why he could barely stand to look at her. He doubted he ever would explain, not even if she continued to be resentful enough to hold his confession over his neck like a sword ready to fall at any moment.

Pushing away from the door, he started walking down the hallway. Spider fell into step with him right away.

“Know what set her off this time?” Spike asked as they were reaching the heavy metal doors.

“I did,” she said, and shrugged when he looked at her sideways. “I went to bring her dinner and she grabbed my hand. Smelled it.” 

She sounded uncomfortable at that; even after all this time, she sometimes forgot that more than color marked Illyria as non-human – as though the time shifts weren’t enough.

“She said I smelled like ashes and rain.”

Frowning, Spike paused, a hand on the locked doors that were all that separated a deranged ex-god from the rest of his kingdom. At times, it was hard to remember whom he was trying to protect.

“Ashes and rain,” he repeated quietly. Was Blue losing it completely at last? “Did you check how far the shift extended?”

Spider shook her head. “Not yet. You want me to?” 

“Yeah. If it got as far as the cave, the newest batch must be scared. Take a couple of girls. Make sure they know it’s all harmless.”

She was silent long enough that Spike looked at her again. “Is it?” she asked, but walked away before he could answer.

He watched her go, but in his mind another image was sharper – it always was whenever he looked at her. Damn, but he really hoped he wouldn’t have to kill her in the end. If only he could have known how far in the future that shift had jumped…

Shaking that thought away, he finally pushed down the first lock and started to work on the second one. With any luck, her Blueness wouldn’t be in the mood for a cup of tea with William, this time.

***

“Don’t shift time now.”

Illyria’s eyes were colder than death when she looked at Spike from across the room. One of _those_ moods, was it? Bloody fantastic.

“You left,” she said, returning to her contemplation of the wallpaper.

Spike approached warily. She hadn’t shifted time yet; that didn’t mean she wouldn’t.

“You know I’ve got an image to maintain. We’ve talked about it, remember?”

She didn’t appear to hear him. Spike continued to walk closer. An overturned tray lay beside the sofa. Spider must have been really spooked by the shift if she hadn’t cleaned it up. With a sigh, Spike stopped next to the sofa and picked up the tray. What good was it to be a lord in hell, really, if he ended up playing nurse, babysitter and housekeeper? 

He returned the toasted bread, dish of butter and jelly jars to the tray, along with the plate and knife – both of them plastic; they’d learned that breakable things and potential weapons were better kept away from Illyria's room. It wasn’t about her needing weapons, but about whoever was in her room losing their mind along with their sense of time. Not that many people came to visit, these days, apart from Spike and Spider.

Illyria turned toward him, arms crossed and mouth set on a grin line.

“So," Spike said, raising an eyebrow, "care to tell me why—”

_Shift_

The teacups rattled on the tray as William stumbled. He managed to catch himself before he could drop or break anything. Two feet away, Miss Winifred gasped and covered her mouth with a delicate hand.

“Are you all right?” she asked, dulcet voice as sweet as the honey on the tray.

Heat flooding his face, William set the tray down on the low table. “I’m… I’m fine,” he stammered. “Would you care to sit down?”

“I would like that, yes,” she said, smiling shyly as she sat on the love seat, hands smoothing down her skirts—

—Illyria never smiled. She didn’t understand that no lady would let a gentleman see her arrange her clothing. Mostly, though, she was the very opposite of shy and Spike—

William blinked and pushed his glasses higher on his nose. Something felt… strange. It always did when he met Miss Winifred for tea. His heart always seemed to beat too fast, his hands always trembled a little, and everything just seemed… strange. He didn't have another word for it. He didn't have words for many things, lately.

He poured a cup of tea, and Miss Winifred smiled at him when he handed it to her. He poured a second one for himself and sat down next to her – not too close, it wouldn’t have been proper.

“Did you write any more poetry for me, William?” she asked after taking a sip.

William looked at her, his stomach flipping unpleasantly. “I’m so, so sorry, Miss Winifred. I haven’t had time.”

She looked so disappointed that he immediately added, “But I will, I promise!”

“No you won’t,” she said, her voice hardening along with the line of her lips. “You’ll just play with your new pet.” 

William’s eyes widened as her hair, which had been gathered in a tight bun at the back of her head, suddenly was released and bounced on her shoulders, the rich auburn color turning to blue. 

“Can’t you see he breaks everything and everyone he touches?”

_Shift_

“He is called the Destroyer for a reason.”

Spike purposefully stopped himself breathing. It sometimes helped to put him back in his right mind. 

“You’ve really got to stop that, Blue.” 

He tried to pluck the glasses from his nose and shook his head when he didn’t find them. The cup in his hand was now a glass; there was little he wouldn’t have given to see it filled with alcohol. He flung it across the room. It shattered against the wall. Illyria didn’t even flinch. Spike stood and strode away, putting distance between them, raking his fingers through his hair furiously. 

“I swear I’ll write you all the bad poetry you want if you just _stop_ the bloody—”

He stopped and looked at her, eyes narrowed to slits. “Wait a second. The _Destroyer_?” He remembered what Spider had said. Illyria had smelled something on her. The only thing that was different… “You mean the kid?”

Illyria’s face remained inscrutable.

“Come on,” Spike said, exasperated. “If you know who he is—”

“I know,” she said coolly. “But he doesn’t.”

It took Spike a full hour before he realized that she wouldn’t say another word to him about the kid. Not until he wrote her poetry. He slammed the door closed on his way out.

***

Finding Spider took moments. Convincing her to help, somewhat longer. In the end, though, once Spike had told her _why_ , she said she would do it – or at least try to. They had never actually attempted to make Illyria shift on purpose. Spike wasn’t sure they could, but it was worth a try.

“See, it’s easier when you _explain_ things to me,” she told him as they parted ways in front of Spike’s room, and her voice could have cut through flesh and bone.

Spike watched her go, and again had to shake away the image of blood. He didn’t have time for this. Entering the room quietly, he locked it behind him and pushed the key at the bottom of his jeans’ pocket. He had to look around to find the boy. He had retreated to the corner of the room farthest from the door and wrapped himself in the comforter. His head snapped up when Spike approached, eyes wide and wild at once when he looked around him as though not recognizing his surroundings. His heartbeat pounded, much too fast, much too frightened.

“It’s all right,” Spike said softly. He approached with slow, measured steps, hands open on each side of him. He hoped that was enough not to seem threatening; he was more used to scaring people than the opposite. He crouched in front of the boy until they were at eye level. “It’s all gonna be all right. I know part of you understands what I’m saying, and I know this is not going to make sense, but we’re going to shift to the past. Before we all went to Hell. You won’t remember all this nightmare at first but if you try, you will. And I need you to remember this, pet. I’m just trying to help. I’m not going to hurt—”

_Shift_

Frowning, Spike stood and stumbled back, away from the snarling boy that was unfurling from beneath a blanket, dressed in raw leather, a necklace of teeth and bones around his neck.

“Who in the bloody hell—”

—Hell. This was Hell. Los Angeles had fallen and—

“—are you?”

The boy took a step forward, and barely missed tripping over his blanket. The frown fell from his face and he looked at the mass of fluffy white cotton, clearly confused. His confusion only grew when he looked around him.

“What is this place?” he asked, his voice as hard as his gaze when it returned to Spike. “How did you get me here? Talk, vampire, or I’ll stake you right away.”

He raised his right arm at that; the point of a stake was just sticking out of the device strapped to his wrist. Spike had the sudden feeling that the kid might stake him whether he talked or not. The pity was, he looked human so there wasn’t a damn thing Spike could do to stop him.

“I don’t even know where we are,” Spike said, stepping back and raising his hands. He tried to keep an eye on the kid as he surveyed the room. Big bed, large windows with heavy velvet drapes, thick carpet beneath his bare—

“Fuck.”

Looking down, Spike suddenly realized he was naked; which was logical, since just a minute ago he’d been in bed. Alone. Damn Slayer. Damn bottle that had been half empty already when he started drinking. 

It was a bit useless to cover himself now, the boy had seen all Spike had to show, and it wasn’t like Spike had anything to be ashamed of in that department. And neither did the boy, actually. Though Spike couldn’t have said where the mental image of him naked, kneeling and hard had come from.

His cock stirred and he dropped a hand to it. He’d feel better with clothes on. He took slow steps backward to the dresser against the wall. The boy followed. His arm never wavered.

“I don’t know where we are,” he said, fumbling into the drawer and pulling out a black t-shirt. He almost dropped it when he realized it smelled like him. Did he live here? “I don’t know how we got here.” The jeans fit just as well as the t-shirt did. It was just weird… and at the same time, it wasn’t. If he just reached for it, he had a feeling that the explanation would be there, and everything would—

—make sense.

Spike let out a shaky breath. Damn him and his brilliant plans.

“What’s your name?” he asked quickly, unsure how much more time he had. “How did you know I’m a vampire?”

The boy bared his teeth. “You smell like a vampire,” he all but growled. “Like death and blood. Just like _him_. And I guess you have a right to know who is going to kill you. My name is Steven.”

Even as he finished, he flicked his wrist. A stake flew out, quickly followed by a second one. Spike managed to duck and avoid the first one, but the second lodged itself in his shoulder. With a grunt, he kicked at the boy’s legs, already bracing himself for the jolt of pain. But while his foot made contact, the pain didn’t come, and the boy – Steven – took the blow in stride. He jumped at Spike and pushed him back against the wall. The blade attached to his left forearm dug into Spike’s neck. Spike froze.

“He sent you, didn’t he?” Steven snarled. “He was too scared to come find me himself.”

Spike blinked. “Who?”

Steven scoffed. “An—”

_Shift_

“—gel.”

For three seconds that seemed to last like as many hours, Steven’s forearm continued to press against Spike’s throat. His eyes were blinking very fast, and his heart thundered as fast as when he had awakened earlier. In a way, he had just awakened again.

“It’s all right,” Spike said, words quiet and gentle. “Everything’s…”

With a whimper, the boy folded down to his knees, head bowed once more. With a sigh, Spike sat down against the wall next to him and ran his fingertips through his hair.

“You’re fine,” he murmured. “Nobody’s going to hurt you, Steven.”

The boy hadn’t reacted to the touch, but somehow, hearing his own name had him trembling and whimpering again.

Spike closed his eyes and sighed. Not much progress. They’d have to try again.

***

“Try again?” Spider crossed her arms and shuddered. “Are you insane?”

Gritting his teeth, Spike turned away from her and started rummaging through the fridge. 

“I’m pretty sure you remember what I’m like when I’m insane,” he muttered, closing the damn thing again. He set the bottle of milk on the counter, but didn’t pull out anything else. Honestly, how did his ladies survive on yogurt – and _where_ did they find yogurt, anyway? He turned to the cupboards and threw them open.

“You said you didn’t learn anything that’ll help.”

Spike’s hand closed on a box of crackers. Better than yogurt, he supposed. “Got his name,” he said, moving on to the next cupboard. “That’s a start. And it proves it works. Next time—”

Spider touched his arm. Spike jerked away and looked at her.

“I don’t want to do it,” she said, voice cold and eyes burning. “That wasn’t a particularly nice period of my life—”

“Mine either,” Spike cut in, and did his best not to grimace. “And I don’t like any of this any more than you do, believe me. But we’re jumping ahead anyway. Next time you ask her if she misses training with me when she first got her new body.”

Crackers in one hand and milk in the other, he started for the door.

“Spike, I’m not doing it.”

He didn’t even turn back. “Give me twenty minutes to get some food in him. Knock on my door to warn me when you’re on your way to her room.”

“I won’t do it,” she said again, but Spike was already halfway down the corridor. She _would_ do it. She might be bitter, and bitchy, and a total pain, but he knew he could count on her.

Unless today was the day he would kill her. He really, really hoped it wasn’t.

He stopped for a moment in front of his door and tried to clear his mind. Maybe he was pushing things too fast, maybe he ought to give Steven a few days to get used to this new life, get a bit of his spine back along with his ability to form sentences – or even single words. The thing was, Spike had long ago lost the last bits of his patience. 

The first few weeks in Hell, he’d been sure that some idiot in a shiny armor would pull them all out with some insane but heroic move. He’d only wondered if it’d be a petite blonde or broody dark avenger type that would save them. He wasn’t sure which would have been worse.

Neither had come, though. No one had saved the day. And after two years, he— 

Shaking his head, he pushed the door handle down with his elbow and walked in.

He was doing his best, and that would have to be enough. It wasn’t like _he_ was a hero or anything that stupid.

Steven was back in his corner, wrapped in his blanket again. He jerked awake when Spike entered, the movement so brusque that he hit his head on the wall behind him.

“Great.” Spike snorted. “Why don’t you go ahead and knock yourself out all on your own. I’m sure that will help.”

Steven lowered his head, tremors shaking his body as Spike approached.

“You know, the mattress is more comfortable than the floor. You’re sure you don’t want to climb on?” No answer; not that Spike had expected one. He sat down in front of the boy, legs crossed and duster spread out behind him. “Thought you might be hungry, what with the grumbling stomach and all. Crackers?”

He pulled out a handful of the square bits of food and held out his hand in front of him. Steven raised his head a little, just enough for Spike to see his nostrils flare. 

“So you don’t just smell vamps, you smell food too. That’s a pretty sharp nose you have there. Got one of those myself so I know they come in handy. What I don’t know is why I’m talking to you like you’re going to answer me any minute now.”

Holding back a sigh, he reached into the mass of fluffy blanket with his free hand. He ignored the sudden fear in Steven’s scent and hunted down the boy’s hand. He tugged it out more gently than he felt capable of and forced the boy’s palm open to drop the crackers inside it.

“Eat before they get stale. Or more stale than they already are. And then you and I can have a chat about Angel.”

The boy’s hand clenched on the crackers, crushing them to bits.

“Or not.” The sigh found its way out. Getting to his feet, Spike took the bottle of milk to the desk across the room. The decanter had been empty for a long time – and Spike wouldn’t have minded finding more of that fifty-year-old whiskey – but the crystal glasses would work just fine for milk. “Maybe we’ll just wait for the next time shift and see if you still want to kill me, Steven.”

When he returned to the corner, the crumbs he had expected to find on the floor weren’t there. Instead, a golden flake clung to Steven’s bottom lip. It fell when the boy shut his eyes and started whimpering quietly.

“I know, pet.” Spike sat down again and set the glass in front of the boy. “Not a fan of the shifts myself. So if you want to start talking, really, I won’t mind all that much.”

He was quiet after that, watching, waiting. Watching for the boy’s tiniest movement. Waiting for a sign that Steven really was in there still, that he wasn’t too far gone to ever find his way back. 

By the time Spider knocked on the door, he still hadn’t found anything.

***

_Shift_

“ _—possibly communicating with plants and—_ ”

Someone cleared their throat. Spike stopped writing and looked up from his clipboard. Instead of the blue bitch he’d expected to see, there was a boy sitting in front of him. Actually, Spike was sitting too. On the floor. Hadn’t he been standing just a second ago?

“Huh, hi?” the boy said. He was wrapped in what looked like a bed comforter, although judging by the puzzled look he gave it, he found that just as strange as Spike did. “So this might be a stupid question, but… is this Wolfram & Hart’s?”

Spike frowned as he got to his feet. He looked around him. Posh room, huge bed, no blue ancient god kicking his arse around. “It doesn’t look like it, and I’m pretty sure I’ve seen every last bit of that building.”

“You work for Wolfram & Hart, then?” the boy asked. When Spike turned to look at him again, he was standing, rocking back and forth on the ball of his feet. He pulled a hand out of his pocket to hold it out to Spike. “I’m Connor, by the way.”

Spike shook his hand automatically, but something felt… off. Why had he expected another name to pass the boy’s lips?

“Spike. And yeah, I suppose I work there.” He looked at the clipboard in his hand. “If I’m filling out forms I must be working. You’d think Angel would—”

—Where _was_ Angel? The idiot had gone and disappeared as soon as Hell had opened up and swallowed Los Angeles. Some days Spike almost wished he’d—

He took a sharp breath in and closed his eyes for an instant. All right, as time shifts went, this wasn’t so bad. 

“Huh, Spike? Can I have my hand back?”

Spike opened his eyes again to realize he was still holding Steven’s hand. Or was it Connor’s? He let go and gave the boy an apologetic smile – not for the hand, but for what he was going to do soon.

“So tell me, Connor. Why did you come to Wolfram & Hart?”

Connor shrugged. “My parents flipped when that van ran into me. They thought Wolfram & Hart could help. And now these… things attacked us.” His lips curved into a hesitant smile, like he knew he was about to say something stupid. “Angel said they’re demons. And he’s a vampire.” He laughed weakly. “Sounds crazy, huh?”

Spike forced a chuckle out. “Not really. So you know Angel real well, then?”

Connor shook his head. “Nah, just met him today. He totally saved us. It was pretty awesome.” The smile fell from his face and he looked around him again, crossing his arms. “My Dad was hurt, though. You think he’s around? And my Mom?”

“I hope not. Does anyone ever call you Steven? Is that your nickname or something?”

Connor’s eyebrows climbed halfway up his forehead. During the last time shift, his eyes had seemed dark, filled with anger. Now all Spike could see was how clear they were – clear, and filled with confusion.

“Steven? No. And why—”

“Listen pet, I don’t know how much time we have so I can’t afford to take things slow. I need you to listen carefully, all right?”

The boy was frowning again. “O…K?”

Spike dropped the clipboard on the bed and stuck his hands in his duster’s pockets. He could have wept when his fingers curled around the familiar shape of a rectangular pack. “We’re in Hell.” He lit up a cigarette and took a deep – heavenly – drag. “We’ve been here for two years now. It happened maybe a month after you visited Wolfram & Hart. I need you to focus and remember these two years. And I’m sorry pet, they’re not going to be pretty, but you smell like Angel and I need to know why.”

Connor’s eyes widened a little more. He raised his hands in front of him, palms out as though to ward off Spike, and started to walk back. The wall was too close behind him, though, and he couldn’t go very far that way. He started walking sideways, never taking his eyes off Spike.

“All right, dude, you’re starting to freak me out, so I’m just going to go and see if I can find my parents, OK? I’ll just—”

Spike moved to stand between him and the door. He took another drag on his cigarette, held the smoke in until it started burning his lungs. “How long have you been a slave, pet?”

Connor sputtered. “A _what_?” Sweat was pearling on his forehead; a bead started sliding down his temple. “All right, this is not funny anymore.” His voice was shaking, and the acrid smell of fear was beginning to rise from him, distinguishable even beyond the smoke. “I… I want to leave. Can I leave?”

His voice had turned pleading, almost childlike. Spike stomped on the nagging bit of guilt he was beginning to feel. Guilt would help nothing. It never did.

“Wish you could,” he said with what he hoped was a smile, “but the time shift isn’t going to last much longer. You’re remembering, aren’t you?” He only needed to see the panic in the boy’s eyes to know he was. “Did you see Angel when the traders caught you? Is that why you smell like him? Was he there?”

Connor shook his head. He was looking all around him once more, eyes wild and scared. 

“Connor!”

He jumped when Spike’s hand closed on his arm, looked at it, then at Spike’s face. “You… you _bought_ me.”

“I did. Only way to get you out of there. Now answer the question. Was Angel there?”

Connor slowly shook his head again. “No, he wasn’t... No. I haven’t seen him since… since he told me to get out of Wolfram & Hart.” Blinking, he looked at the corner, where the comforter lay abandoned with the box of crackers and the untouched glass of milk. “Oh my god.” His heart was beating faster. “This isn’t me. It can’t be…” His eyes returned to Spike. “You… you work with my father. You were at Wolfram & Hart when I was there. With that woman. Fred. But she wasn’t really—”

He was beginning to hyperventilate. Spike stroked his arm. “Calm down, pet. You’ll be all right.” More questions than ever were cluttering his mind, but the shift had lasted a long time already and he doubted they had much longer. “Just remember this for me, OK? You’ll be all right. No one’s gonna hurt you any more, least of all me. And you can—”

_Shift_

“—sleep on the bed if you want.”

For a second – just a second – the boy held his gaze, and Spike hoped that he’d kept his mind. And then he folded down to his knees, arms curled over his head, scarred back rounded and waiting for blows.

Spike brought his hand to his lips. The cigarette was gone. 

“Bloody fucking hell!”

Steven – Connor – whoever the fuck he was – flinched and whimpered quietly. Spike bit down on his tongue and stopped cursing. 

What now?

***

Sitting in the sun, Spike nodded absently as his ladies told him about the latest recruits’ feats. At the moment, he couldn’t have cared less if they were as strong as Slayers – and probably _were_ Slayers. Any other day, he’d have sparred with them, and figured out just how good they were for himself. Not now, though; he had too much going on in his mind to fight.

The more he learned about the kid, the more questions he had, and it was starting to seriously piss him off. He needed answers, not riddles.

Having a simple name for his pet would have been a nice start. Blue had called him The Destroyer, like it was a title or something, and it certainly could have fit the kid who had called himself Steven. That kid had known how to fight, he had known what vampires were, how to recognize one on sight, and, although thankfully he hadn’t demonstrated that skill, how to kill one. But the kid Spike had just met… that one had been more of a fluffy puppy than a tiger. Connor had apparently barely believed that vampires existed.

Then there was Angel. Steven had known him; there had been anger in his voice when he said his name. Connor had known him too, but he had talked of him with something between awe and incredulity.

What bugged Spike the most, though, were a few words that turned in his mind, and taunted him. He should have understood them, he was even sure the answer was right there, just out of sight. It always felt like this during time shifts just before he remembered what was going on. It wasn’t all that difficult to slip back into his actual mind once he realized something was off, but this one answer eluded him and it was driving him insane.

_You work with my father. You were at Wolfram & Hart when I was there. With that woman. Fred. But she wasn’t really—_

Spike assumed Connor had meant, she wasn’t really Fred. Which meant he had seen Spike with Illyria, but had known Fred before the shift. And if he thought Spike worked with his father, he might be the son of one of Angel’s minions. But if that was the case, wouldn’t he know about demons and vampires? It didn’t make any sense.

A frustrated growl passed his lips, and the ladies around him fell silent.

“So,” Lacy asked, her tone cautious as she peered at him, “we shouldn’t check that factory, then?”

Spike blinked, played back the last few moments of the conversation in his mind. “What… Oh. Yes. Sure. Go and check it out. Take the baby Slayers along but give them minders, just in case.”

Lacy nodded, but behind her Spider’s arms were crossed, her expression murderous. “You’re not coming,” she said, and because it was more an accusation than a question, Spike didn’t bother answering.

As he stood, he gave a few orders for the rest of what passed as day in Hell, assigning guard duties, sending new babysitters to relieve the poor girls who were stuck in the caves with the rescued humans they hadn’t managed to smuggle out to Lorne’s paradise yet. His ladies were used to the time shifts by now, but the humans always freaked out even after being told they were safe.

He was halfway back to the mansion when Spider stopped him, grabbing his arm firmly and refusing to let go even after he had stopped and turned to her.

“You’re going to make her shift again, aren’t you?” she asked, and again the accusation was all he could hear in her voice.

He raised an eyebrow at her and pulled his arm free. “What if I am?”

“The girls don’t like it,” she started, but Spike stopped her at once.

“No. _You_ don’t like it. But that’s not why you’re upset, is it?”

She held his gaze, her chin held high in defiance. “Is that why you kicked me out of your bed?” she hissed. “So you could put a guy in it? Fuck, Spike, he’s barely more than a kid. And a slave on top of it!”

He slipped into his game face before he even knew it. “Do you _really_ want me to pull off your arms like you're nothing more than a stupid bug?”

She didn’t back off, though he could smell a thread of fear rising in her scent. “And what else am I supposed to think? You never got so interested in a slave before. You never made Illyria shift time on purpose just so you could figure out who someone was. What’s so special about him?”

Spike sighed, shaking his head and pushing the fangs away. “He’s connected to Angel. I need to know how. If that means doing a hundred more time shifts, then buckle up because it’ll be a bumpy ride. And if that means sending you to Lorne for some R and R so you’ll stop arguing with me about it…”

She practically bristled at the threat – and to her it _was_ a threat. Most of his ladies enjoyed a few days away from Blue, the caves and the fighting, but to Spider it was nothing more than punishment.

“Do what you want,” she snapped. “But I don’t see why you even want to find that Angel guy. You always have to pull him out of trouble anyway.”

She flipped her hair over her shoulder, already barking orders at the girls who would be going out to that factory. Spike watched them all snap at attention before he turned back to the mansion. He’d told his ladies stories of his past, and maybe he had embellished them a bit as inspiration struck, but he wasn’t silly enough to believe what came out of his own mouth. He could save a few humans, could take over an already organized army with little more than luck, wide smiles and sheer charisma, and when push came to shove he could take care of those he called his own. But in the end, that wouldn’t be enough and he knew it. What they needed to get them all out of Hell was a hero – and he was anything but. He was just some poor sod who couldn't even remember when he had first seen those too pretty blue eyes.

***

Spike figured out his battle plan on his way back to his room. He was going to take the boy to Blue, and see if the meeting got a reaction from either of them. They had met before, and knowing more about that might give him more puzzle pieces to try and fit together. As he unlocked the door to his room, Spike only hoped that—

_Shift_

—Connor wouldn’t be mad.

He closed the door quietly behind him. The bedroom was dark. That never was a good sign. He shrugged off his jacket and let it fall to the floor behind him. Damn, but he missed his duster. He toed off his shoes and found his way to the bed.

“Pet?” he called quietly. “You asleep?”

No answer, not even a sliver of movement, which could only mean that Connor was _not_ asleep. Even after all this time, he always awakened in a jump, his heart beating wildly for a few seconds. Not now, though; his heartbeat remained steady and strong. Awake.

Spike finished undressing and climbed into bed behind him, resting a tentative hand on a too tense shoulder, pressing his lips at the nape of Connor’s neck.

“Hey. Don’t be mad.”

Connor huffed and shrugged, no doubt trying to dislodge Spike’s hand. Spike molded himself more tightly to his back, his hand sliding down Connor’s arm to find his fingers.

“Your Da called with a case and—” 

The lad was gritting his teeth now; all right, so maybe that wasn’t the best way to start explaining. He tried a different route, breathing the words right at the top of Connor’s spine. His boy was ticklish there, and he started squirming against Spike. 

“Thought I’d be back before you, I swear. Your Tuesday class always runs long.”

Connor snorted. “I skipped class, you dumbass. I came home early. To be with you. And instead I find an empty apartment and no note or anything. I couldn’t even call you seeing how you didn’t take your freaking cell phone.”

Fear and guilt tightened over Spike’s heart like a punishing fist. He pulled back, tugging Connor until he rolled over and faced him. In the darkened room, he could barely make out his features. He traced the scar on his cheek with his thumb and watched Connor’s eyes flutter closed.

“Bad day?” he whispered, as though talking too loudly would awaken old ghosts. “Did something happen?” He hated those days when something, someone triggered bad memories and pulled his boy back to Hell. Hated them even more when he wasn’t there to help Connor return to reality. “I’m so sorry, luv, I should have—”

“Idiot.”

Spike blinked. All right, not what he had expected, but he preferred that to frightened whimpers.

“I didn’t come home early because of _that_ ,” Connor snapped. “Don’t you know what today is?”

Spike couldn’t have said if the sigh that passed his lips was one of relief or disappointment. Connor had probably had something planned, and Spike had fucked it all up. Damn.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, nuzzling Connor’s neck. “Not used to celebrating things like Valentine’s Day.”

Or rather, he amended silently, he wasn’t used to celebrating in a way that wouldn’t cause Connor to reach for the closest stake.

Connor let out an exasperated sigh. His hand slid up Spike’s back and neck, his fingers raking through his hair. 

“You owe me,” Connor muttered. “You _so_ owe me.”

Somehow, it sounded like a cross between “I forgive you” and “why aren’t you blowing me already?”. Spike pressed his grinning lips to the delicate flutter of his boy’s pulse, and felt it jump at the touch. Another kiss, this one to Connor’s mouth, with just the flicker of his tongue lapping at his lips. Connor rolled to his back and Spike continued to trail kisses on warm skin that smelled like home. He pulled the sheet away as he slowly found his way down his boy’s body, uncovering trembling flesh and a beautiful hard cock. He rubbed his cheek against it, first one side, then the other. 

“Tease,” Connor grunted.

Spike laughed. “Only for you, luv,” he said, breathing the words right against the tip of Connor’s cock. He took it into his mouth, all the way to the root, enjoying so much the way Connor bucked up when he swallowed around him that he did it again. He pulled back up, the barest hint of teeth scraping against sensitive skin and drawing a wordless grunt from Connor’s lips. Tight fingers threaded through his hair but he barely noticed, focused as he was on sliding down again, his tongue soothing and teasing both.

He’d take his time, make this last, lead his boy to the edge of pleasure and—

_Shift_

Spike blinked when strands of come filled his mouth. He swallowed reflexively, drawing another moan from Connor. Only when Connor’s hips had stopped jerking did Spike pull away, straightening up to find himself kneeling between Connor’s legs. His mind still fuzzy with a mist that blanketed everything but this very moment, Spike looked up a body he had never touched before that day – a body that felt as intimately familiar as his own – and found Connor’s eyes. They were very wide, very clear, and stared back at Spike for a few seconds that seemed to last forever.

“All right. Can’t say I—”

It was as though Spike’s words were a signal. Connor whimpered and closed his eyes tight before scrambling off the bed. 

“—expected this,” Spike finished with a sigh.

He let himself fall face down onto the bed, trapping his hard-on beneath him, and replayed the shift through his mind. He wasn’t too sure what to make of it all – or rather, he was afraid to read too much into it – but two things seemed clear: they would get out of Hell, and Connor would get better. It was hard to cling to that last idea, though, when the boy’s heart seemed ready to pop right out of his chest.

Sliding closer to the edge of the bed, Spike looked down. Very gently, he laid his hand at the back of Connor’s neck and wondered how he was supposed to take the quivering boy curled up on the floor and help him become someone who wouldn’t flinch at the smallest touch.

***

In the end, Spike didn’t need to attach the leash back to Connor’s collar, although he was truly tempted for a moment.

The last time shift apparently had unsettled the boy just as much as it had confused Spike, and it seemed to take forever before he finally stopped whimpering. With the memory of how much Spike had cared for the boy – would care one day – did care already – damn but time shifts were bloody _annoying_ \- the sound was even more difficult to endure than before.

“There you go. That’s a good boy.” Connor’s eyes flitted around the hallway when Spike led him out of the room by the hand. It was bloody ridiculous, that’s what it was, but Spike had a feeling that if he let go Connor would be back on his knees in the blink of an eye. “See, no one there. And even if they were, no one’s here to hurt you. We just want to help you, pet. You’ve got to see that.”

Spike continued to utter quiet reassurances as they walked down the hallway to Blue’s door. He doubted that the words imported as much as his tone, and he kept it quiet and reassuring, however frustrated he was actually feeling. Unlocking and opening the heavy metal door with just one hand proved more complicated than what it would have been if he had just let go for a second, but he didn’t dare to. Finally he managed to pull Connor inside Illyria’s room after him. He’d get an answer out of her even if he and the boy had to camp in her sitting room until—

_Shift_

“Huh, Spike, was it?” 

Spike turned around to see the kid Angel had just brought in to meet them looking at him with a mildly puzzled expression. 

“Any reason why you’re holding my hand? I mean, the catsuit is cool and all but it’s not like you need to stop me from jumping on her or something.” He glanced toward Illyria as he finished, and his cheeks pinked visibly.

Frowning, Spike let go of the kid’s hand. Why _had_ he taken it? “If I were you I’d be more worried about what she can do to—”

_Shift_

“Fuck!”

Connor folded down to his knees at once, and Spike bit his bottom lip to stop himself from ranting at Illyria. He’d never, ever get used to it, and the short time shifts, the ones that didn’t give him a chance to realize something was going on, were worse than anything else – not that he had figured it out during the last shift to the future, but he’d been too distracted at the time.

Turning to Illyria, he gave an exasperated sigh. “Come on, Blue, why did you do that for!”

She blinked, looking a little unsettled, and walked over to where Spike was standing. “This shift was involuntary on my part,” she said, and her voice, usually so steady and cool, wavered a little when she observed Connor. “I didn’t think you would bring him to me. Seeing him was… troubling.”

“Well, how else am I supposed to figure out who…”

His voice trailed off and he frowned, abruptly remembering this latest shift, along with that brief meeting, a bit more than two years earlier. It had been just days after they had lost Fred. Spike had still been trying to figure out Illria, and when Angel had walked in with a client that didn’t even look old enough to drink, Spike hadn’t been all that interested. He’d forgotten the boy as soon as he had walked out of the training room. 

He looked down to where Illyria was now crouching in front of Connor, head tilted to one side as she continued to observe him. Connor was trembling, and although his head was bowed, Spike could see him looking back at her through his bangs. 

He’d been a client, then, not someone whose father worked for Wolfram & Hart like Spike had believed. Well, that was at least one thing he now knew for sure. Small steps, but they were getting somewhere.

“Illyria?” He waited for her to look at him, but when she didn’t he continued anyway. “You called him the Destroyer before. Can you tell me why?”

Connor flinched at the name and Spike couldn’t help crouching down by his side and running a gentle hand up and down his back. It had seemed to soothe him a little bit earlier. He hated the lattice of scars beneath his fingers, but at least he could take comfort in his memories of the future. Sooner or later, these scars would be completely gone.

When he returned his gaze to Illyria, he realized that it was him she was now observing closely, like an insect beneath a microscope, pinned to a slide and with nowhere to go. He fucking hated when she did that to him. Usually, she followed that look with another of those shifts back to a time when he had been William, transforming herself into someone neither she nor Fred had ever been.

“You arrived too late,” she said with a light frown. “You never knew him before Angel changed everyone’s memories. So why do you care about him? Why, since you don’t know who he is?”

Spike closed his eyes for an instant and let out a frustrated sigh. One day, he’d get a straight answer out of her. One day, he would, even if it was the very last thing he did. 

“I arrived where too late for what?” he asked. “How would Angel change anyone’s memories? Why would he want to do that?”

The boy made tiny, unhappy noises every time they said Angel’s name and it was all Spike could do not to start growling.

“And why don’t you just _tell_ me already who he is since you know, you bloody woman!”

Illyria slowly stood up, eyes cold as a frozen lake as she stared down at Spike and the boy. From icy blue, they slowly turned to a warmer brown, just a shade lighter than her hair. Spike braced himself for what he knew was coming. When she changed before the shift, it meant she was focusing the shift on the space and people directly around her, and she could sometimes sustain it for hours. Closing his eyes, he tried to cling to the memory of who he was _now_ , and nevermind who he had been in whatever time she was taking them to. Beneath his hand, Connor had stopped trembling.

_Shift_

For one second, one blessed, miraculous, perfectly perfect second, Spike’s mind was quiet. Peaceful. At rest. Like before… before…

The spark.

“It burns.”

The words were a whimper. A whimper that sounded like him. Except he didn’t whimper. Not ever. He made _others_ whimper. Made them cry, made them bleed, made them dead. He knew. They were all in his head, reminding him that he was a killer. A monster. A—

“Vampire.”

He flinched at the sound of that voice. Not in his head, that one. And it said the word like the curse it was, spitting it like poison that stung on the tongue. 

Someone whimpered again – not him, no, not him, someone else – and Spike moved back, pulled away from the voice, away from the beating heart. Hearts. He scratched at his chest. Quiet. Dead and still. Empty. 

His back hit a wall behind him. He pressed a hand to it, checked that it was truly there, truly solid, and when he realized it was, he let himself slide down until he was crouching, arms around his legs, eyes closed so he wouldn’t see the boy and the girl just a few feet away. He’d hurt so many boys. So many girls, too, until that last one. Until…

“Are you sure he’s a vampire?” the girl asked. “He doesn’t look very… Grrrr.”

“Not a vampire.” His laugh was rotten fabric crumbling to nothing. “Not a man. Not anything.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. I should…”

The boy didn’t finish, but Spike heard it anyway and he looked at him. He knew that tone. Knew that glint in the boy’s eyes. He knew death when he saw it, standing in front of him, cloaked in shadows and pain, stormy skies and revenge. When he heard it, crinkled silk whispering like a funeral shroud, Hail Marys like so many curse words. When he smelled it, as familiar as his own scent, smoke and salt and blood and—

“Angel.” He chuckled against his knees, tasted dirt and fire. Angel wasn’t here, but his smell was, his shadow loomed. It always did, always—

—Where _was_ Angel? It had been two fucking years. Was he even still alive? And if he was, where—

“Do you know where Angel is?”

The girl crouched down in front of him, not too close, no, because he was an animal and there was no cage to protect her. No bars to restrain him that she could see. But the bars were there, burning his heart and his head, two leashes so he’d never hurt another girl again, blonde or brunette or—

—Blue. The hair was wrong. The eyes. The skin. She was playing at being Fred again. Why?—

“Fred. Sweet and smart. I missed you when you died.”

She gave a start, her eyes widened, big and brown, big and scared, they were never scared until it was too late. The boy behind her came closer, and Angel’s shadow fell over Spike. Someone whimpered again. Wouldn’t they ever stop?

“Fred, do you know him?”

“No, I don’t…”

She stood and walked away, arms crossed like she was cold. Her skin had always been colder, after.

But after what?

The boy stood closer to Spike, blocking the sight of the girl—

—She wasn’t a girl, not anymore. Older than him, stronger, and crazier than he’d ever been even after he’d gotten his bloody soul back.

Spike closed his eyes and took in a deep but shaky breath. God, but he hated, _hated_ Illyria for doing this to him again.

“Do you know Angel?” the boy – Connor, or was it Steven now? – asked, voice as cold as the death he all but promised with every syllable.

Spike licked his lips and stood – slowly, with his hands open at his sides, hoping to show he meant no harm. “I know him, yes.” His voice was still shaking with the echoes of too many victims; he tried to lock them back in the box where they belonged, the box where he needed them to stay so he could function. It wasn’t always easy. It helped that he had something to focus on. “Actually, I’m looking for him. Do you know where he is?”

Something glittered in the boy’s eyes, so unexpected that Spike didn’t recognize it until he heard it in his voice as well. Relief. “No. We’re looking for him too. He disappeared a month—”

“Liar.”

The boy gave a start and moved away from Spike so he could look at Fred without turning his back on Spike. And it _was_ still Fred, even if her voice held Illyria’s contempt and lack of feelings.

“Liar,” she said again. “You knew. All that summer, we searched and we searched, and the entire time you _knew_ where Angel was. Because you had put him there.”

Connor’s eyes were bulging, and it was his turn to step back and search for the support of a wall behind him. Spike didn’t know which of them to watch, and his gaze went back and forth between them.

“How could you do that to him?” she continued, now pointing an angry finger at Connor. “How could you do that to your own father? Angel should have killed you for what you did to him. He should have—” 

“But he did!” Connor cried out, his right hand rising to clutch his throat. “He killed me and he forgave me and he loves me and…”

Spike had _no_ fucking _clue_ what the hell was going on. None of it made sense. Nothing whatsoever.

Except for that slight gasp, that blink, and Connor’s body shifting in a minute way that hinted he might just fold down to his knees any second now. Those little nothings that meant he remembered.

Connor’s heartbeat was thundering, and Spike actually worried he might soon have a heart attack. Raising both hands palm out, he stepped in front of him and gave what he hoped was a peaceful, soothing gesture.

“Calm down,” he said very low. “No one’s going to hurt you. I told you before. You remember that, don’t you? You’re safe here. I brought you here to be safe.”

The kid’s eyes jumped from Fred to Spike and he blinked as though he were adjusting his vision. It must have been a trick of the light, but his eyes seemed lighter, suddenly, like a storm had passed, leaving blue skies behind washed clean of anger and violence. 

“S-Spike,” he said, frowning slightly and flinching back. “You’re… you’re Spike?”

There was just enough of a question in his tone that Spike nodded. “That’s my name, yes. You remember where you are?”

Connor’s eyes never left Spike. His hands were pressed to the wall on either side of him, like he was trying to push right through it. “Hell,” he whispered. “This is Hell. I remember everything. What he made me forget, too.” He shut his eyes tight and started shaking.

“He?” Spike repeated. If he tried to put together what Illyria and Connor had said, it could only be one person. “You mean Angel, right?”

Connor’s breath hitched and he opened his eyes again, grabbing Spike’s shirt with both hands and clinging to him as he asked, frantic. “Is he here? Where…” His voice trailed off as he blinked furiously. His hold on Spike slackened but he didn’t let go. “No. You said… you said you’re looking for him. You wanted me to help… But I don’t know where he is.” His gaze drifted behind Spike for a second. “Not this time. I didn’t put him in a box this time. I promise I didn’t. Do you believe me?” His expression turned pleading, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Please say you believe me. I wouldn’t hurt him again. I promise.”

Spike patted his shoulder gently. “I believe you,” he said, trying for a smile. “It’s all right, luv. Everything’s all right. We’ll find him.”

Even as he said the words, Spike could only wonder _how_ he would do that. Angel’s scent on the kid had been his first lead in two years. What now?

“You… you called me that,” Connor said. “Before. When you…” He bit his lip, pink rising in his cheeks while his eyes grew wide and wet. “You touched me. And I let you. Why did I let you? You didn’t force—”

He swallowed hard and twisted away from Spike, looking at him as though he expected Spike to attack any second now. His eyes flitted around the room, settling on the girl that still looked like Fred – except that Fred’s eyes had never been so cold and empty.

“Fred?” Connor said, voice trembling again. “You’re… you’re Fred, aren’t you?”

Illyria shook her head once. “This shell was, but I am not.”

If anything, her answer seemed to confuse Connor. 

“Her name is Illyria,” Spike said, drawing Connor’s attention back to him. “You met her at Wolfram & Hart. Blue hair, leather catsuit?” When Connor slowly nodded, Spike added, “She can play with time. Turn people back to where they were and what they thought a year from now, or a hundred. Push them into who they’ll be in the future, too. Do you remember the time shifts you’ve been through since I brought you here?”

Connor licked his lips, a frown pulling at his brow once more. “So that was… when you touched… that was the future?”

“Yes luv.”

“How much time?”

Spike took tentative steps toward him. “I don’t know. But you didn’t look much older than you are now. If we’re lucky, it won’t be too long.”

Connor let out a bark of laughter at that, as sudden, as brief as it was unexpected. Covering his mouth with his hand, he cast a worried look around, though what he thought he would find, Spike couldn’t begin to fathom. 

“You’re safe,” Spike said again, now within arm’s reach of Connor. “We’re in the middle of a time shift now, I don’t know how long it’ll last. But when it breaks, I need you to remember this one thing.” Very slowly, he raised both hands and cupped Connor’s face between them. The boy tried to move back, but Spike held on as gently as he could. “I’m not going to hurt you. No one here is going to. I know what you’ve been through with the traders, but it’s over now. You’re safe. I promise.”

Something dark, like fear and hate intricately mixed, passed through Connor’s face when Spike mentioned the traders, but he didn’t collapse to his knees, and Spike counted that as a small victory.

“In that… shift?” Connor said the word cautiously, like he wasn’t sure he would like the taste of it. “You… you said you were out with my dad. So… he was all right, then? Or he… will be? Whenever that was?”

Spike dropped one hand from Connor’s face, but left the other one where it was, stroking his cheek lightly with his thumb.

“I don’t know, luv. I don’t know your father. I will in the future but—”

“But you said you know Angel?” Connor cut in, confusion tinting his words.

Spike stifled a frustrated sigh. He knew how much the time shifts could mess with one’s mind. The poor kid apparently thought…

All the pieces clicked together in the blink of an eye. Things Illyria had said, and Fred, and Steven, and Connor – and Spike himself in that jump to the future. Most of all, though, the reason why the kid smelled like Angel, and why Spike had needed to take him where he’d be safe. It still didn’t make any sense, but it _fit_.

“Angel is your father?” Spike said, and while the words sounded like a question, while he knew it just wasn’t possible, he also knew it was true.

Connor nodded slowly. “Didn’t you know? I thought she told you.”

His hand rose in a vague gesture toward Illyria. Spike’s eyes flickered toward her – just long enough to see that it _was_ Illyria, her skin turning paler and taking a blue tinge, her hair changing like a strange light was brushing through it. Spike swallowed back a growl – why _now_ , damn it! he was finally starting to figure it all out! – and looked back at Connor.

“The shift is about to end,” he said very fast. His hand was shaking on Connor’s face. “Cling to this, luv. Cling to everything you know. To yourself. No more kneeling. You’re not a slave anymore. You’re safe. You’re—”

_Shift._

“—safe.”

Spike clenched his teeth and waited, observing Connor and hoping, _hoping_ that this time, maybe…

Connor blinked. He was trembling, but still upright. His lips twitched, then parted, a tiny sound escaping them. “Spike?”

Spike couldn’t stop himself from grinning. After all these tiny steps and setbacks, at last they seemed to be going forward.

“Yes, luv.” His hand had stilled on Connor’s face, but he started moving again, caressing the boy’s cheek with his thumb, oh so lightly. “Everything’s all right. You’re safe. Remember?”

Connor was still trembling so much that his small nod could have escaped Spike’s notice. He was observing the boy too closely for that, though, hyperaware of how fast his heart was beating still, and how he seemed to be wavering on his feet, as though unsure whether to remain standing or return to his knees.

“Why don’t we sit down?” Spike said, trying to make the words a true suggestion rather than a command disguised behind politeness. “Would you like that?”

Connor’s bangs hid his eyes when he lowered his head, and it was all Spike could do not to brush them to the side. If Connor wanted to hide, that was fine. If he wanted to remain standing, that was also fine. All Spike wanted was an answer.

“Would you rather sit or remain standing?” Spike asked again, clinging to his patience by his fingernails. “Or maybe you’re tired? Would you like to sleep maybe?”

“Could I…” Connor’s voice was so quiet, Spike had to lean in to hear better. It didn’t help that Connor ducked his head a little lower still. “The blanket? I… Could I… have it? Please?”

It took Spike a couple of seconds to understand what Connor was talking about: the bed comforter in the other room, the one he had wrapped around his body, a pitiful cotton armor that wouldn’t protect him from anything more than the cold. It wasn’t cold in Hell. It wasn’t as warm as Spike would have expected either. But if Connor wanted a blanket, he certainly could have that.

“Of course, luv. We’ll go back to the other room, then. Is that all right?”

Spike dropped his hand from Connor’s face and held it out to him. After a long moment of hesitation, Connor rested his fingers against Spike’s palm, light and warm like a summer breeze. Spike closed his hand over them very gently and gave Connor a smile.

“There you go. Good boy. We’ll just—”

“I forbid you to leave.”

Startled, Spike whipped his head toward Illyria. She was standing just feet away, arms crossed and a stone-cold expression on her face that matched the ice in her words. Before Spike could tell her what he thought of her forbidding him to do anything, Connor’s hand slipped out of his and Spike could only watch, dismayed, as the boy slipped down to his knees once more, head bowed and body shaking harder than ever, fearful whimpers escaping his lips.

“Oh for fuck's sake,” Spike muttered, then turned a glare at Illyria. “What did you do that for? He was actually _talking_ to me and now-” He bit down the words that wanted to come out. They weren't back to square one. He refused to believe they were.

Illyria remained unfazed by Spike’s protests. “You are _my_ pet,” she said slowly. “You will entertain me. Now.”

“Entertain you? I’ve got no time to entertain you! I’m trying to fix the boy if you haven’t noticed!”

“I did notice. You care too much about him. Can’t you see he will destroy you like he destroyed everyone who cared about him?”

As reluctant as he was to abandon Connor, Spike didn’t think he could help now, not until the boy had started calming down on his own. He walked over to Illyria and stared her down – nevermind that it never helped, it made _him_ feel better.

“And how would I know all that?” he snapped at her. “You’re the one who knows him. And you won’t even _tell_ me what you know, you bloody woman!”

Illyria shook her head, a rare display of disapproval for her. “I _showed_ you. So you can understand better than with words. But you’re too stubborn to see how dangerous that child is. If you won’t see reason, pet, I’ll have to show you again.”

The warning was clear enough. Spike raised his hand, ready to plead for her not to time-shift again, but her eyes were already narrowing as she focused – still blue, though; when was she sending them all, this time? Spike tried to brace himself, tried to turn to warn Connor—

_Shift_

Pain exploded through his body and Spike screamed, crumbling to the floor and writhing in agony.

“Spike!”

Through his own shouts, the sound of Connor’s voice was just a tenuous strand of light to which Spike clung with all his might so he wouldn’t pass out. The pain still pulsed through his body, but he clenched his teeth and tried to quiet down so he wouldn’t trigger Connor. When his boy’s hands touched him, though, one on his cheek, the other on his chest, both so light and gentle, Spike wished for darkness and oblivion even as he flinched away and cried out.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean…” Connor’s voice was quieter, now, further away. He was pulling back, and Spike wanted to sob in both relief and fear. “Can you hear me? Spike, baby, please…”

Spike flung out his arm, caught Connor’s hand, forced his own hand tight around it, fuck the pain that flared anew from his fingers and all the way up his arm before spreading through his entire body. 

“Not your fault,” he said, or tried to, but what came out of his throat didn’t resemble human speech. It felt like flames were coursing over his entire body but inside his skin. Even burning up hadn’t felt that bad, but he’d been alone, then. And now… now…

“I told you he would destroy you. Do you believe me now?”

Eyes narrowed to slits, Spike looked up toward the voice above him. He hadn’t seen Illyria in months. Why was she there? What was she talking about?

“It was an accident!” Connor whimpered, and the tiny part of Spike’s mind that wasn’t consumed by pain wanted to howl. It’d been so long since Connor had sounded so lost… 

He tightened his fingers on Connor’s just a little more, waited for the flare of accentuated pain to abate, and tried to say it again. “Not your fault.”

This time, it sounded like words – raspy words, parchment crumbling after being licked by flames, but words just the same. Connor gasped, then wrapped his free hand over Spike’s, enclosing it in flesh and pressure that, as delicate as it was, felt like a knife was peeling Spike’s skin off, strip by strip. He wanted to free himself, wanted to stop the pain, but Connor was kissing his fingers now, mouth wet with tears, apologies falling from his lips like so many caresses, and Spike couldn’t make himself pull away. If he really was going to die, he wouldn’t be alone. Not this time. Not again.

“Tell me how to help you. Please.”

Connor’s voice felt very far away, and Spike held on to his hand more tightly still. Or rather, he tried to; he couldn’t actually feel Connor’s skin against his, could only feel pain, and he had to force his eyes open again, had to turn his head, nevermind how much it hurt to move, so he could see that yes, his hand was still enclosed in both of Connor’s.

He licked his lips and tried to talk again, tried to tell Connor he didn’t know what might help, but this time no sound came out. Good. That way, he wouldn’t say anything that might haunt Connor, _after_ ; wouldn’t ask what in hell he had been thinking, what he had hoped would come out of this. 

He closed his eyes again. He was drifting away. Part of him wished it were over already. At the same time, he knew it would hurt… _him_. He didn’t want him to be hurt again. Even if his name was escaping Spike now, like a color just beyond his range of vision. 

“He’s a vampire,” someone said, so far away, and Spike knew that voice but he just couldn’t put a name or a face on it. “Think, child. If anything can help, it’s—”

“Blood.”

That voice, Spike knew too. Warm sand beneath his toes, fluid like water, escaping from his cupped hands just as easily. A crisscross lattice, pink on paler pink, and the red blossoms had long since faded when Spike had first touched it. Skies brighter and wider than he could imagine, turned dark and gray by unpredictable storms. 

“Come on, Spike. Show me your fangs.”

There was something in his mouth, pushing, searching, warm, and when it scraped against his teeth, there was more warmth still, thick and flavorful. The trickle dried out almost at once. Spike wanted more. Wanted all of it. When the warmtastylife pulled away, his fangs dropped and he growled. More warmth pressed against his mouth. It smelled good, like lazy Sunday mornings in sex-warmed sheets.

“Go ahead, baby. Bite.”

This time, the warmth flooded his mouth. He swallowed, drank more, and with each mouthful, the fire that burned him from the inside out quieted down, the haze that clouded his mind cleared a little more. His arms tightened over Connor, drew him closer, fingers tangled in too-long hair to angle his head better and—

Spike blinked. His vision cleared, right along with his head. Illyria was standing above him, above them, lips drawn in a tight, unfeeling line. This time he was going to kill the damn bitch.

Pushing Connor away was the most difficult thing he had ever done, especially when the burn and pain returned at once, not as strong as before but slowly picking up in intensity. 

Eyes wild, Connor covered his neck with his hand and stared at Spike. “Are you… are you better?” His voice was a dry croak, as painful to hear as the blood sliding past his fingers was to see. “If you need more you can take more.”

Spike shook his head and looked at Illyria. “Shift us back,” he growled. “Now, Blue. Shift or I swear the last thing I do in any timeline is kill you.”

“I’m not the one who will destroy you. He will.”

She pointed at Connor. Connor who was still bleeding, still looking so damn scared. Connor who was shaking his head like he couldn’t understand. “Spike? What’s going on? Are you all right?”

All Spike could smell was his blood; all he could feel, the burn in his vein, that burn that had started going away when he had drunk Connor’s blood.

“Illyria!” He practically roared her name. “Shift us back!”

She blinked.

_Shift_

The pain vanished so fast, it was like it had never existed. Spike’s mouth was still coated in blood, though, the same blood that stained Connor’s hand. The boy was looking at it, blinking very fast like he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. 

Spike sat up and started reaching toward him, stopping himself before he could make contact. He had to make a conscious effort to get out of game face. “Connor… you all right, luv?”

Blue-gray eyes looked up to meet Spike’s gaze. “You… you bit me,” he whispered.

Spike wasn’t sure whether to be glad that they were out of the shift and Connor was talking, or angry that he had hurt the boy. Before he could figure out whether to apologize or try to explain, Connor added, “I… made you bite me.”

He looked as confused as Spike felt. Getting to his feet, Spike held his hand out to him. “Come on, luv. Let’s go and get you cleaned up.”

He had to wait for long seconds before Connor’s fingers even twitched, and longer still before he reached back to the offered hand and allowed Spike to pull him up to his feet. He was shaking, but he still held on tight to Spike’s fingers, and even chanced a puzzled glance at him. Barely believing his luck, Spike started pulling him toward the door, stopping only briefly in front of Illyria.

“I’ll be back,” he said coldly. “You and I need to talk, Blue. No shifts, no tricks. You understand?”

She didn’t respond.

Spike led the way out of the room. His hand was stuck to Connor’s where the blood had dried between their palms.

***

The shifts were screwing up Spike’s notion of time. He _knew_ it had not even been a full day since he had brought Connor back from the slave auctions, but after so many shifts, it felt like days, or even weeks had passed. He didn’t regret pushing Illyria into the first shifts, though, and didn't really regret the less than pleasant ones she had initiated of her own accord, not when the result was that he now knew so much about Connor, about his past – and even about his future. His future with Spike. And wasn’t that the most unexpected thing to happen since Spike had found himself caretaker, jailor and so-called pet to her Blue Crazyness herself?

“You still with me, luv?”

Connor gave a tiny, timid nod. Spike could only marvel again. Less than a day, when usually it took slaves so long to start forgetting their conditioning, and there was Connor nodding. Standing. Remaining still and allowing Spike to wash up the blood off his neck and hand.

“Already starting to scab over,” Spike murmured to himself as he examined the bite. He covered it with a square of gauze anyway. Maybe it was a waste of medical supplies, but he didn’t want to see that mark any more than he had to. Not that the sight of the gauze, Connor’s skin beneath it almost as white as the gauze itself, stopped Spike from remembering what he had done. Next to it, the leather collar seemed even darker suddenly. Spike’s fingers twitched every time they brushed against it. How long before Connor allowed him to take the damn thing off? Even better, how long until he took it off himself?

“I’m sorry I bit you,” he said as he laid out the last bit of tape to secure the gauze. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I really didn’t know what I was doing.”

When Connor didn’t reply, Spike waited a few more seconds to give him time, but it soon became clear he wasn’t going to. He shoved the first aid box back under the bathroom sink and nodded to himself.

“Right. If your internal clock is as screwy as mine, you must be exhausted.” He took Connor’s hand again to lead him back into the bedroom. “And the blood loss isn’t going to help. Milk and crackers again, and then a bit more sleep will do you good.”

Choices, Spike reminded himself, too late. He had to give him choices. “Or would you rather have something else to eat?”

A small shake of head was enough of an answer. Spike let go of Connor’s hand to get the milk from the dresser. He gave it a sniff, hoping it hadn’t turned, but it smelled ok. He had just picked up Connor’s empty glass from the floor when a whisper rose behind him.

“I did.”

Very slowly, Spike turned back toward Connor. So far, the boy had only talked when spoken to. Spike didn’t want to spook him now.

“What is it you did, luv?” he asked softly.

“Know.” He started reaching toward his neck, but dropped his hand again and lowered his eyes as though expecting a reprimand. His voice was even quieter when he finished. “What I was doing. When I made you bite me.”

Spike looked down at the glass in his hand, and swore under his breath when he realized the milk he was pouring was overflowing.

“Damn it.”

The effect was as instantaneous as it was predictable, and Spike wanted to swear again, at himself this time. He managed to hold his tongue as he watched Connor drop down to his knees, but couldn’t stop himself from sighing. He seemed to be doing that an awful lot, lately.

“Not you,” he said as he sat cross-legged in front of Connor, careful not to sit where the carpet was wet from the milk. He barely avoided spilling more milk from the full glass. “Not mad at you, luv. You’ve been very good. Excellent, even.”

He placed the milk in front of Connor and waited, hands curled in his lap, for Connor to stop shaking. It seemed to take forever.

“I… I made you hurt,” Connor whispered. 

“Not your fault.” Spike’s reply was automatic. He remembered he had meant the words when he had said them during the shift, and he meant them just as much now – even if he had no clue what Connor could possibly have done for the pain to be so excruciating. With any luck, Connor did know, and he wouldn’t actually do it when the time came.

“You can change the future, you know,” Spike said as he stood once more and walked over to the corner of the room. “Just because it happened in a shift, it doesn’t mean that it will happen for real.” _Or at least,_ he added silently, _I hope so_. He didn’t particularly look forward to feeling that kind of pain again. Picking up the box of crackers in one hand and the bed comforter in the other, he returned to Connor, happy to see that the glass was now only half full. “Only the past can’t be changed.”

Connor looked up at him through his bangs, giving Spike pause even as he was about to drape the blanket over the boy’s shoulders. 

“Angel…” More whispers, as though Connor were afraid that someone outside the door might object to their talking. Spike wondered whom the boy had whispered to, when he had been in a cage. “He thought he could change it. Change me.”

The blanket slid off Connor’s shoulders. Spike let it. Connor could fix it however he wanted it. He set the crackers next to the milk and moved away again, even though he wanted to stay close. It seemed Connor felt more free to move if Spike wasn’t too close to him.

“I don’t know why he’d want to change you.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, Spike watched one trembling hand clasp the edge of the comforter, while the other picked up a broken cracker. “You look like a fine boy to me. Then again, I never could understand why he did half the things he did.”

Spike didn’t believe anymore that Connor was the key to finding Angel, but he would take whatever breadcrumbs he was offered to better understand the boy in front of him. However, while Connor dared a look toward him, he didn’t say anything more, and finished his milk and the crackers in near silence. A mouse would have made more noise eating those stale bits of dry food.

“You’ll be all right if I leave you alone?” Spike asked, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his knees. “I need to talk to Illyria.”

Connor’s eyes widened at once, his heartbeat, so calm until now, jumping like a wild animal. “Another… another shift?” he whispered, sounding more than a little scared.

“I’m not sure,” Spike said. “I hope not. But if you go to sleep, a shift won’t wake you up. Do you understand?”

Connor nodded slowly, and his eyes followed Spike as he stood and started for the door. 

“And you can sleep in the bed if you want,” Spike said without looking back, and left the room. Even after he had locked the door, he remained in front of it, listening in. More than a minute passed before Spike heard soft steps, and the light creaking of the mattress. He went to Illyria with a small smile fluttering on his lips. The smile didn’t last long.

***

“Remember, no shift.”

Spike couldn’t tell if Illyria even heard his warning. She was sitting on the coffee table, eyes closed, legs crossed, hands resting on her knees. She didn’t move an eyelash as he approached. He wasn’t even sure she was breathing.

“Blue?”

He advanced cautiously, expecting a shift to twist his world again at any moment now. By the time he reached the sofa, however, he was still himself. He sat down in front of her and, figuring she might be more amenable to answering his questions if he showed some semblance of respect, he tried to be patient.

He’d never been all that good at that patience thing.

“All right, when I said we needed to talk, I figured I wouldn’t be the only one talking. You with me, Blue?”

Her eyes remained closed, but her lips parted to let out clipped words. “I am your god and king. You are my pet. You may address me as Lord.”

Spike forced out a snort. Back to that, were they? “I thought we’d already established that I don’t need a god and even less a leader, _Blue_. As for being your pet—”

She finally looked at him, with no more feelings in her eyes than when he had once caught her observing the weaving of the carpet. “Your leader is lost. You cannot find him. You need—”

“Now wait a second.” Forearms resting on his thighs, Spike leaned forward. “I’m not looking for him because he’s my bloody leader. I’m looking because he’s the one who put us in this fucking mess and if anyone’s gonna get us out of here, it’s him.”

“Your leader is lost,” she said again, with no more warmth in her voice than she had the first time. “He can do nothing about your current situation. Isn’t it time for you to switch your allegiance to a different king?”

Spike didn’t reply at once, and instead considered her closely. On one hand, he didn’t want to read more in her words than she was actually saying. On the other, it had been two years, and he was desperate enough that any hint at an exit was too good to ignore.

“Are you saying,” he finally asked, the words slow and quiet, “that I should choose you as my leader because you can get us out of here?”

For the first time since he had entered the room, she moved, extending first one leg then the other and pushing herself off the table. She stood in front of him, her head tilted to one side, brown eyes examining him closely.

_Brown eyes? Oh for fuck's sake…_

“No shifting now,” he said hurriedly. “Let’s just talk, all right? Illyria? Please?”

“Would you do as I demanded if I said I could return us both to the world we previously inhabited? Would you kill the boy?”

Before Spike could do more than open his mouth, it was already too late.

_Shift_

William pushed his glasses higher on his nose. As his vision adjusted and he saw who was standing in front of him, he jumped to his feet, embarrassed, his cheeks already feeling as though they had been set on fire.

“Miss Winifred, I’m so sorry for being so rude!” He tried to bow toward her, but she was so close that it felt a little awkward. Her skirts weren’t very full, and yet they almost reached his feet. “My only excuse is that I was not informed you had arrived.”

But even that was not a very good excuse, and it only showed that he tolerated poor service from his maid. His cheeks felt even hotter now.

She was too polite to comment on his rudeness, and merely gave him a smile. “Will you sit with me?”

He moved to the side to allow her more room. “It… it would be my pleasure. Would you care for some refreshments? Tea maybe?”

He was startled when she reached out and took his hand, a delicate blush coloring her cheeks. “No, please, just… just sit with me.”

His blushing renewed in front of her own, William sat next to her – although at a respectable distance. He didn’t know what to do about his hand, though. It was hardly appropriate that she was clutching it in her lap, but he couldn’t fathom pulling away from her. 

“William?” 

As she said his name, his gaze was drawn from his hand in hers to her face. Her eyes were very wide, and very serious. She had such lovely eyes… Why had he ever believed blue eyes were nicer?

“I have an important question for you,” she said softly. “And I require your honest answer.”

William swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Of course, Miss Winifred, I’d never lie to you.”

She nodded. “Thank you. My question is, how do you feel about me?”

William had never felt so embarrassed in his life. He had laid out his feelings for her in dozens of poems, but he had only ever shared with her the most innocent ones. He would never have dreamed to presume… “Miss… that is so… what I mean is…”

“Do you love me, Spike?”

William closed his eyes, and it was Spike who opened them again. It was rare that the transition was so abrupt, and at the same time so smooth, brought on by just one word. He should have been mad that she had brought him back to this yet again, but all he felt was sadness as he peered into Fred’s face and saw little more than a lost child – and yes, she truly was utterly lost to them.

“I do, Blue,” he said, and squeezed her hand gently. “But not like Wes loved her. I can’t be that for you. You know I can’t.”

She pushed his hand away and stood abruptly. Spike expected her to shift back – and he wanted her to, damn it; it just was _wrong_ to feel his heart beat into his chest – but it was still Fred’s eyes, her face that turned to him, cold as ice and just as still. 

“You can’t because of the boy.”

Spike shook his head. “No. He’s got nothing to do with that. I can’t because…” He shrugged. “I can’t, that’s all. I never loved Fred like Wesley did, but I did love her to pieces. And you killed her. I know that’s not how you see it, but—”

“I can be her,” she cut in, arms extended on either side of her as though to prove her point.

“No, you can _pretend_ to be her. A version of her that never even existed.”

“A version you could love,” she insisted.

“No. A version William could have loved. But I’m not him, not any more than you’re her. We both just remember them.” Sighing, he shook his head. “Why would you even care to have anyone love you? You remind me often enough that you’re a god and king. Isn’t worship what you really want?”

Her arms fell back to her sides, and as they did the light green fabric of her dress turned to the more familiar leather of Illyria’s attire. Her face and hair shifted at the same time as the world returned to its proper time.

_Shift_

“Worship is… different,” she said as though nothing had changed. “Wesley died too fast for me to decide how different. I wish to explore what he felt towards me in more depth.”

Still trying to readjust to the shift, Spike barely managed not to point out that Wesley hadn’t loved her any more than he did. He’d let her keep her illusions, just as long as she told him…

“Is it true? You said you can return the world to what it was. Get us out of hell. Is it true?”

Her face gave away nothing. “Will you kill the boy?”

Standing, he glared at her. “No more games, Illyria. I’m not going to hurt him, and neither are you. Now answer—”

“You wouldn’t sacrifice him even if it meant escaping this place?” she insisted, a little more loudly now.

Spike shook his head. “You’re forgetting something. You showed me the future. You showed me we’ll get out of hell. And that he’ll be there when we do. So maybe you’ll be the one getting us out of here, and maybe someone else will, but either way he’ll be alive when it happens.”

Very slowly, she turned her head to the door. When Spike followed her gaze, he realized the door was just barely open, and he frowned. Apart from him, only one other person could open Illyria’s chambers. Not even Illyria could do so; the first thing Spike had done when they had taken over the mansion was find someone who knew enough magic to keep Illyria in, keep her safe, and keep everyone else safe as well. Only he and Spider had a key to the room. She didn’t seem to be behind the door, though. If she’d been there, she was gone.

“The past can’t change,” Illyria said calmly. “But what about the future?”

Spike was running out of the room before the realization had fully sunk in. If Spider had been at the door, if she had heard Illyria talk of sacrificing Connor to get out of hell—

The door to his room was open as well. 

If she had touched a hair off Connor’s head, he promised himself as he ran faster, she was dead.

***

Spike crouched next to Spider and pulled the knife out of her chest. It slipped out with a wet sound, releasing more blood that disappeared into the black fabric of her clothes. Reaching out with his free hand, he started closing her eyes, but his hand faltered before he could complete the gesture.

He had seen this before. He had _done_ this before. He remembered how blank-minded he had been. How bewildered, and scared, and angry, and sorry for a terrible waste he had felt. He remembered that overwhelming feeling of guilt, too.

But now that it was more than a few seconds, more than a glimpse into a possible future and instead the actual present, he realized how wrong he had been. He had misunderstood it all.

The guilt he felt wasn’t for killing Spider, it was for allowing Connor to be put into danger. The anger and fear weren’t for what had happened, but what could have happened, how Spider could have hurt Connor, all because Illyria liked to play games far too much for all their sakes. 

He looked at the bloody knife in his hand; Spider’s own. He didn’t need to think hard to know what she had intended to do with it. Finally closing her eyes, he stood again and had no trouble finding Connor. He was back in his corner, eyes wild and scared, blood smeared over his cheek. Leaving the knife by Spider’s body, Spike walked over and kneeled in front of him.

“You all right, pet?”

Arms around his knees, Connor was trembling. His eyes flittered from the floor to something behind Spike’s shoulder – Spider’s body, more than likely.

“You said…” The words were a murmur, barely loud enough for Spike to catch beneath the drumming beat of Connor’s heart. “No one would hurt me anymore.”

Spike’s heart was in his throat. “I know, luv.” Very slowly, he reached out and brushed his fingertips just beneath the cut on Connor’s cheek. Connor winced and pulled back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know she would do this. Let’s get you cleaned up, all right?”

But when he held his hand out to Connor, the boy didn’t take it or respond. Instead, his arms tightened around his legs. Spike gritted his teeth and stood. He went to the bathroom and brought back a wet washcloth. Connor flinched when it first touched him, but he let Spike clean his cheek, one careful dab after the other. The edge of the cut was too jagged to have been made by the knife. She had to have cut him with the clawed tip of one of her spider arms. They were poisonous, she had once bragged.

“It’s going to scar,” he murmured, and even as he said it he remembered. In that shift to the future, there had been a scar on Connor’s cheek, healed but easily recognizable beneath Spike’s fingertips. 

“I… killed her?”

There was enough of a question in the quiet words that Spike knew he had to answer. Resting his hand on Connor’s shoulder, Spike stroked lightly.

“It’s my fault,” Spike breathed. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Connor’s. “I should have protected you better. I _will_ protect you better, I promise.”

But the words rang false; he had promised Connor was safe, and that had turned out to be a lie. How could Connor trust him now?

“Are you…” Connor drew in a shuddering breath. His eyes closed behind too long bangs. “Going to punish me?”

Spike frowned and pulled back. With a gentle hand, he brushed Connor’s hair away from his face. “Look at me, luv.”

He had to wait long seconds before Connor’s eyelids fluttered open again, revealing a frightened gaze. 

“You’re not going to be punished,” he said gently, caressing Connor’s cheek. “You did what you had to in order to survive. You’re fine. All fine. And safe. Do you understand?”

Connor swallowed, his mouth opened and closed again, but he didn’t reply. Instead, he asked, “Why?”

“Why what, luv?”

“Why did… she want to kill me?”

Spike sighed. “Because she thought if you died, we could get out of hell.”

A slow blink hid Connor’s eyes. “Is it true?” he whispered. “If I die—”

“No.” Spike didn’t like at all that sliver of fearful hope in Connor’s voice. “It’s not true. And even if it—”

“Spider! Spike! She’s gone!”

Connor flinched at the shout in the hallway and pressed himself further back against the wall. Spike turned around to the door, glaring at Lacy as she rushed in – and immediately came to an abrupt halt when she saw Spider’s body. Her eyes grew wide, though Spike couldn’t tell if it was surprise or fear that had her heart hammering.

“Is she…” Her voice squeaked and she started over, her eyes never leaving Spider. “Is she dead?”

“She’s dead,” Spike confirmed as he stood. “She was jealous of the boy and she took a knife to him. So I killed her.”

Lacy’s eyes widened a little more if that was possible as they turned to Spike. “You killed her?” she repeated.

“I killed her.” 

He could have sworn he felt a hand brush the back of his leg, but when he glanced back Connor’s hands were both clutching his knees. He was looking up at Spike with the most confused look, but Spike didn’t have time to explain why he was lying now.

“And I’ll kill anyone who touches a hair of his head,” he continued, looking back at Lacy. “You can tell that to all the girls so we don’t have any more problems.”

Stepping to the bed, he pulled the sheet off and wrapped it around Spider’s body like a funeral shroud. Her spider arms had curled over her, giving her an odd shape when Spike picked her up.

He nodded his head toward the door and Lacy started in surprise. 

“Let’s get out of here,” he told her, indicating that she should walk out first, and followed her out. Once they were in the hallway, he gently laid Spider’s body down alongside the wall. “Get a couple of girls to dig up a grave next to the other ones. We’ll bury her as soon as they’re done.” He started turning back to the bedroom. “Come get me when—”

Lacy clutched his arm, stopping him. “Spike, wait.”

He turned a raised eyebrow at her and heard her throat click when she swallowed.

“I was coming to tell you… It’s Illyria. We couldn’t stop her. She’s gone.”

***

Two years of days crawling so slowly that it had seemed twice as long. Two years of a quiet routine that had kept Illyria contained and the rest of them, for the most part, safe. Had they been two years of delusions, Spike now wondered. Did she have it all planned out – how she’d get Spike and Spider closer with a few time shifts, how she’d break them apart the same way, then use Spider’s lingering resentment to her advantage? Had it all been a ploy to get free? Or had she simply seen an open door and walked out?

Spike wouldn’t know unless he went and found her; he had no time to lose. But there was something he needed to do before he left.

“Pet? You still with me?”

As he crouched in front of Connor, Spike wanted to reach out and touch his shoulder to get his attention, but he figured maybe it was better if he didn’t. While Spike had been talking with Lacy outside the room, Connor had picked up Spider’s knife again, and he was holding it in front of him with both hands clutching the hilt.

“She’s dead,” the boy whispered. “Isn’t she?”

Spike nodded warily. “She is. She can’t hurt you anymore. No one will hurt you. All right?”

Blue-gray eyes looked at him as though he had been speaking a foreign language. Maybe Connor would need more than words to believe this particular claim again, but Spike didn’t have time to wait for his trust.

“Listen, I need to go find Illyria. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone but I’ll have the girls bring you food and—”

“You’re leaving me again?” Connor blurted out, eyes wide and his heartbeat alarmed.

_Of all times to start questioning me…_

“I’ve got to,” Spike said, as gently as he could manage with urgency pushing at his heels. “You’ll be safe, I prom—”

Connor dropped the knife, and grabbed Spike’s wrist with both hands. As badly as he was shaking, he held on tight, and shook his head, one tiny, barely there shake before he lowered his eyes, apparently ready to prostrate himself again. Spike sighed. Since he had first brought the boy home, he had tried to give him choices, tried to remind him what it was to be human and free. He couldn’t just ignore Connor’s attempt to say what he wanted just because his timing sucked. But he couldn’t delay going after Illyria much longer either.

“I’ve got to go, luv,” he whispered. “Do you want to come with me?”

Looking up from underneath his bangs, Connor breathed out a quiet, “Yes?”

Spike tried to think fast. This was hardly the best of situations, but maybe he could take advantage of it…

“If you’re coming,” he said, sliding a finger beneath Connor’s chin and pushing it up, “you’ve got to be able to hold your own. That means no falling to your knees if someone says boo to you. No whimpering. I know you're a fighter. We’re going into a fight and I need to know you can have my back. Do you understand? Can you do that?”

Seconds passed with no more answer from Connor than a blink, and Spike started wondering if he was asking too much from the boy. He didn’t actually believe Connor would need to fight, but this was Hell, after all, and they were going after someone whose sanity was questionable at best. Someone who wanted Connor dead. 

Spike was beginning to think maybe taking him along wasn’t the best idea when Connor let go of his wrist with his right hand and picked up the knife from the floor. “Ok,” he said quietly. “I’ll… I can be good.”

It was too late to come back on his offer. Getting to his feet, Spike pulled Connor up as well. “You’re not going out like this,” he said, gesturing to Connor’s sweat pants and bare feet. “Let’s find you something to wear.”

A few minutes later, when they walked out of the bedroom, Connor was wearing black jeans that only stayed up thanks to a belt pulled tight around his waist. His eyes were lowered and he was walking half a step behind Spike, but he was following without needing a leash or a hand to pull him forward.

Spike kept an eye on him as he gave out his orders, picking a few girls to follow in a couple more cars while the rest would stay and protect the humans they still needed to transfer out of the caves and to Lorne’s kingdom. The boy seemed calm, but the quick glances he kept darting all around him, as though expecting an attack, betrayed his frayed nerves. He also kept touching his thigh, where a leather sheath fastened over his jeans held Spider’s knife. Some of the girls noticed that, but they wisely kept their mouths shut.

There was a quick awkward moment when Spike led Connor to the car. The boy started slipping in on the floor in front of the passenger seat, on his knees like he had been on his trip back from the slave auctions. When Spike cleared his throat loudly however, he jumped, startled, and his face turned crimson. He scrambled onto the seat without Spike needing to say another word.

Illyria’s path was easy enough to follow, and Spike gritted his teeth at what the destruction left along the road had to mean. He had seen this once before, just days after they had first descended into Hell. That was how he had found Illyria. He hoped he would be able to talk her down this time again.

When Connor’s voice rose, just loud enough to be heard behind the purr of the engine, the skyline of downtown LA was already festooning the horizon like ancient, crumbling lace. “Why… why did she leave?” he whispered.

Spike shrugged, pressed a little harder on the gas pedal. The two cars following him started falling behind in the rearview mirror. “I don’t know. She gets these weird ideas, sometimes. Tries to do stupid things. Things that could get her hurt.”

“And you… you stop her?” Connor continued. When Spike glanced at him, he was biting his bottom lip. “Why you?”

Spike had asked himself the same thing many times in the past two years. When he was less than sober, he could admit that he _needed_ to take care of someone. It was the only way he knew how to function, the only thing he had ever done, it seemed, as far as he could remember. He wasn’t always very good at it, but he always tried his best. He was a few bottles away from being ready to say any of it aloud, though, and instead settled on part of the truth. “Because I’m all she's got.” 

They had already entered the city before Connor said another word. “Is that why you take care of me too?”

Spike looked at him; he didn’t know what to reply. Turning his attention back to the road, he cursed and hit the brakes as hard as he could. There she - _it_ \- was.

***

In retrospect, Spike wasn’t all that surprised that this was where they had ended up. It wasn’t like Illyria knew that many places in LA. Her Blueness had simply gone to the first home she had known after awakening in this time.

The best that could be said about the Wolfram & Hart building was that it was still standing. The entire façade was open to the winds, and the glass from the windows littered the street, glittering under the combined lights of the moon and sun. 

Illyria – or rather, the creature she had become, an oversized blimp with tentacles flown right out of the worst straight-to-DVD horror movie – was clinging to the building across the street. In the past two years, Spike had sometimes wondered whether his memories from those first few days in Hell were playing a trick on him; surely, Blue could not have transformed into that… thing.

Well, he thought as he stepped out of the car to see better, his memories had done her justice.

Connor had come out as well and was staring not at Illyria but at the Wolfram & Hart building instead, eyes wide and just a little bit unfocused. Spike tried to draw his attention by clutching his shoulder.

“All right pet, I’ll go and try to talk her down the ledge. But I need to know you’re safe. Can you stay…”

Connor’s eyes were still glued to the building behind Spike, and they even widened a little bit more as Spike talked. When the breath hitched in the boy’s throat, Spike turned around. He could hardly believe his eyes. The figure advancing toward them with a sword in hand seemed thinner than the last time Spike had laid eyes on him, and he had a slight limp, but there was no mistaking him. It was Angel.

“Spike?”

The questioning word came from behind him, and Spike turned to glance at his ladies. Weapons in hand, they were coming closer, apparently as wary of the man with the sword as they were of the monster clinging to the building across the street; he had trained them well. He raised a hand palm out toward them and they stopped at once, stretching into a long line, waiting for more orders.

When Spike turned around again, remaining in front of Connor in case there was more going on there than met the eye, Angel had stopped just a few feet away.

“I should have known,” he said, rolling his eyes at Spike. “The sky just about falls on our heads and _of course_ you’re—”

His frown and exasperation disappeared in just the blink of an eye. Connor had slipped to the side, coming fully into sight, and Angel stared at him as though he had seen a ghost. The sword clattered to the asphalt at the same moment he walked forward and reached for Connor. He drew him into his arms, one hand at the back of his head and the other flat on his back. Gritting his teeth, Spike kept a close watch on Connor, ready to pull him free at the first sign of distress. The boy was very tense, and while he accepted the hug, he didn’t return it.

“I thought… I thought you were safe,” Angel stammered. “I thought you went home. I never imagined…” Shaking his head, he pulled back and grabbed Connor’s face in both his hands. “You’ve been here all this time?” When Connor didn’t reply, he brushed his thumb against the cut on his cheek. “Are you all right? What did…”

His voice trailed off. One of his hands fell to Connor’s neck and he touched the collar with his fingertips. His face closed at once, every bit of emotion draining away. Sidestepping Connor, he turned to Spike. The punch came out of nowhere. Spike was slammed back into the car.

“Dad no!”

Palming his jaw with one hand, Spike raised the other toward the girls, stopping them before they could take more than a couple of steps toward him. When he looked back, he saw that Connor was clutching Angel’s fist. He was shaking from head to toe, fear was pouring out of him, but he was still standing. He had Spike’s back, like he had said he would. For the first time since that time shift to the future that had thrown him in for a loop, Spike was beginning to understand _why_ he might end up with the boy

“No,” Connor said again, more quietly now, drawing Angel’s frown back to him. He shuddered and ducked his head. “Spike… he helped me.”

Angel snarled. “By making you wear a slave collar?” 

Connor seemed ready to jump out of his own skin. It was all Spike could do not to growl. Couldn’t the bloody idiot see he was scaring the boy? Couldn’t he smell it?

“By pulling him out of the traders’ hands,” he snapped, stepping closer and glaring at Angel. “Which is more than _you_ did. Where have you been hiding for two fucking years?” 

“Hiding?” Angel shouted the word in Spike’s face. He might have punched him again if Connor hadn’t still been holding his hand. “I wasn’t _hiding_! I’ve been doing the best I could out of the worst—”

“Dad?”

Angel fell silent when Connor’s voice rose again, even more shaky than before. The boy was looking at Angel’s hand in his as though he had never seen him before. Blinking wildly, he looked up at Angel’s face. “How did you… You’re… What happened?”

At that moment, Spike wanted to ask the very same thing. While he was busy getting into Angel’s face, his girls had been calling out for him, and now he could see why: Illyria had returned to her usual form and climbed off the building. She was coming closer, unhurried steps, as regal as a queen. She bent to the ground and in one fluid movement picked up the sword Angel had dropped. Spike hurried forward, hands raised in a peaceful gesture.

“Blue, don’t—”

“I told you before, my pet,” she cut in, voice as emotionless as he had ever heard her. “The boy is the key.”

Spike saw an opening. He took it, and tried to grab the sword out of her hand. His fingers closed on the hilt over hers, but she twisted her hand, pushed back, and hit him in the face with the end of the hilt. Spike stumbled back just as she raised the sword. He shouted.

“No!”

The sword was coming down fast, much too fast. Angel and Connor were both much too still, maybe too surprised by Illyria’s attack to react. From the boy, after all he had been through, after Spider had attacked him, after Spike had promised him, _again_ , that he was safe, Spike could have understood it. But not from Angel. What the hell was wrong with him? Why wasn’t he reacting already?

Spike reached for every last bit of energy he had in him and flung himself forward, elbowing Angel out of his way so he could reach Connor before the sword made contact.

_Shift_

Spike blinked. A second ago, Illyria had been… there was no other word for it, she had been a monster. And now, she stood in front of him, a deep frown marring her features. “I shifted when we first entered this world,” she said. “That’s when I knew.”

Shaking his head, Spike held his hand out to her. “Yeah, well, I like you better like this than when you have tentacles. No more shifting, ok? And no more running. I’m tired of hunting you down. All right?”

She looked at his hand as warily as though it had been a weapon before looking at his face again, head tilted to one side. “I could have told you about the missing pieces, but it wouldn’t have helped. It wasn’t time yet.”

Their abrupt descent into Hell must have unhinged her, Spike thought, and slowly lowered his hand. Not that she had been all that stable to begin with.

“Listen, why don’t you come with me and—”

_Shift_

Spike looked at the knife in his hand. The blade was covered in blood. A drop slid off the hilt and fell. He didn’t need to look down to know it splattered on Spider’s chest.

“This had to be done,” Illyria said, and Spike was surprised to see her standing in front of him when he looked up. “She was a necessary sacrifice.”

Spike shook his head in incomprehension. “Necessary?” he repeated. “Necessary for what? She was my closest ally. The only person I could trust in all this insanity!”

“She would have understood,” Illyria said, implacable. “She would have done anything to get out of Hell.”

“Not this!” Spike shouted. “She wouldn’t have killed an innocent!”

But even as he said it, he knew he was wrong, he had to be wrong. Hadn’t she—

_Shift_

Spike shrugged, a little uncomfortable. He wasn’t used yet to the light weight of this shorter jacket. Damn, but he missed his duster.

“Are you all right?”

He turned to Angel at his side and gave him an absentminded nod. “Yeah. I didn’t expect to see her again. Last time I did, she was dead.”

Angel touched his arm lightly. “In Hell?”

Spike nodded again, shrugged once more. They never talked about those two years – what was there to say? – but that didn’t mean Spike never wondered.

“Did you ever get an explanation about—”

“I don’t want one,” Angel cut in darkly. “We got out, we’re fine – or at least most of us are. I don’t care how or—”

_Shift_

Spike’s confusion at the quick succession of shifts was compounded by the slash of steel drawing a line of fire over his chest. Crying out in pain, he crumbled to his knees, hands rising to press against his bloody chest. 

Connor was standing at his side, staring down at him. Spike reached for his leg and tried to push him away, out of Illyria’s immediate reach, but the boy was still disoriented from the shifts and he did not move.

“Connor!” The boy gave a start at Spike’s harsh tone and blinked at him. “Get away from her!”

The boy’s eyes shifted back and forth between Spike at his feet and Angel behind Spike, the confusion in his gaze slowly turning to determination. “You’ll get out,” he whispered, and the words held the same fear as when Spike had told him why Spider had tried to kill him – the same hope, too. He faced Illyria, and the sword rose again, droplets of blood flying off the blade. They hit Angel first as he moved in front of Connor. The steel followed before Spike even had time to realize what had happened.

There was no shift, this time, and Angel fell to the ground immediately, leaving Connor open. Rather than swing again, a sure hit now that there was no one left close enough to interfere, Illyria dropped the sword.

Completely oblivious to the danger he may or may not be in, Connor dropped to his knees at Angel’s side. “Dad!”

The girls that Spike had forgotten appeared around Illyria. One of them picked up the sword. Three more surrounded Illyria and pushed her back. Illyria could have crushed them with one hand, but she let herself be herded away.

Hoping that he wouldn’t regret this, Spike put her out of his mind for the moment and dragged himself next to Angel. He gave the old man’s bloodied chest a quick glance – it was hard to see with Connor’s hands pressed over the wound, but Spike was pretty sure the sword had gone straight through; easy enough to heal – before giving his attention to the shaking boy on Angel’s other side. He was whimpering again, a litany of broken “No” and “Dad” and “Please” falling from his lips.

“Connor?” Spike grabbed his shoulder and shook him, trying to draw him out of his shock. “Calm down, pet. He’ll be all right. It takes more than that to kill a vamp.”

Connor blinked just as Spike finished, and looked up at him. He shook his head. “He’s not,” he said, voice breaking halfway through. “Not anymore.”

Spike had no idea what Connor meant by that. But when he looked at Angel again, when he noticed that Angel was bleeding a lot more than he should have, blood still spreading over his chest despite the pressure Connor was applying, when he first realized that he could hear two heartbeats in front of him, one too fast and one too slow, he understood what Connor meant. He understood why the boy was so upset. Why Angel wasn't picking himself up already.

Angel wasn’t a vampire anymore – and he was dying. Connor knew it, and he was breaking down again. Spike didn’t know which one to attend to, didn’t know how to help either one of them when it was all he could do to hold himself upright.

But then, it didn’t matter anymore. Blood welled up at the corner of Angel’s mouth. His heart stuttered, then fell silent. Everything turned white and the world disappeared in a flash of light.

***

The first thing Spike felt was the rain striking his face. Cool water, the smell of pollution clinging to it, falling hard and fast. He hadn’t felt it in two years. It never rained, in Hell.

He laughed.

It didn't take him long to recognize the alley. Gunn was just a few feet away, a hand pressed to his middle, trying to keep both his blood and his life where they belonged. He frowned as he looked down at his hand. “Damn,” he muttered. “I had forgotten how much this hurt.”

Gunn was a vamp, Spike remembered abruptly. _Had been_ a vampire. But not anymore. Not when the sound of his heartbeat filled the alley, reverberating against every drop of rain. “Back to the land of the living, then, Charlie boy?”

The ghost of a smile tugged at Gunn’s lips. “If we’re back to square one, I won’t be living for long.”

Someone cleared his throat next to Spike, and he glanced to see Angel standing next to him.

“If we’re back to square one,” Angel said gruffly, “it means we get to change things around. I’m not letting you get turned again.”

Spike listened closely; only one heartbeat. Gunn was back to being human, and Angel back to his fanged state. Wasn’t life grand…

He looked around, searching for the boy he already knew wouldn't be there, finding Illyria instead. She was standing a couple of feet from him, drenched. Somehow he could still distinguish the tear tracks on her cheeks amongst the trails left by the rain. His fists closed before he knew it, and he lashed out, hitting her squarely in the jaw. Her head snapped back but she didn’t move one inch. When she looked at him again, her eyes were questioning. Spike pointed an accusing finger at her.

“You lying bitch! You said killing the boy would bring us back!”

The tiniest movement of her shoulders might have been a shrug. “The boy was a decoy. I couldn’t appear to strike at Angel or they would have stopped me. They wanted him alive. They were ready to turn back time to do so.”

Spike didn’t need to ask who _they_ were. He could guess easily enough. 

“How did you know?”

It was Angel who asked, but Illyria was looking straight at Spike as she answered. “We both learned things we didn’t know through time shifts.” 

She closed her eyes, the way Spike had seen her do so often before she initiated a shift. He started to raise a hand toward her – now was not the time for another one of her games – but when she opened her eyes and looked at her hand, nothing had changed. She didn’t seem surprised, but a shadow crossed her features. “I will miss conversing with William,” she murmured.

Behind her, Gunn cleared his throat. “Not sure what you guys are chatting about, but it looks like we have company. Again.”

Even before he turned to the opening of the alley, Spike knew what he would see: the same army they had not quite conquered the first time around. 

He gave Angel an evaluating glance. Living with Illyria, Spike had grown used to time being less than perfectly linear. He wondered how Angel was taking the change – and how he was taking having died as a human. “Still want to slay the dragon?”

Angel shook his head, a grim smile appearing on his lips. “Maybe not. She’s got to remember too. And if she does, she’ll help us. We might actually win this thing this time around.”

Before Spike could get a confirmation that ‘she’ was the dragon, Angel turned a hard look to him. “And then,” he said icily, “you can tell me exactly what you were doing with my son.”

It was too late, then, to ask how Angel could have a kid in the first place, or to worry about where he might be. The first demons were close, and it was time to fight.

The next couple of hours were… interesting. And seeing Angel ride that dragon was a sight as unexpected as it was awe-inducing – not that Spike would ever admit as much. Everything seemed to go very fast, though, fast enough that Spike wondered aloud, in between killing two demons, if Illyria was messing up with time again. She gave him a scathing look over her own kill and icily pointed out that returning to this world had cost her again the ability to control time. Spike wasn’t sure whether that was a good or bad thing – but he _was_ sure he wouldn’t miss the time shifts.

The entire time, he kept wondering if it would happen again – if the sky would turn the color of blood, if the sun would feel like a caress on his face, if Hell’s jaws would open again and swallow them whole.

It didn’t. 

In the small hours of morning, Spike found himself waiting outside the closest hospital, arms wrapped around himself. He wasn’t cold – he couldn’t be cold – but it was strange how not having his duster on anymore made him feel more exposed. He almost wished that fucking demon had been alive still, so Spike could make him pay a little more painfully for tearing the leather to ribbons. At least it wasn’t raining anymore. 

He had seen Illyria just moments earlier, and he believed she was still somewhere around, but he didn’t feel compelled anymore to keep an eye on her. For one thing, she could take care of herself; for the other, he was still mad at her. Yes, her scheming had gotten them out of Hell, but he believed she should have told him. If she had known all along how it would end, where Angel was, how to draw him out… Sighing, Spike shook his head. It was done, and over. Expecting reason from Illyria was nothing short of insane.

It didn’t take very long before Angel came out. He didn’t say anything about Gunn, but when Spike raised a questioning eyebrow at him, he nodded, a faint smile on his lips. One less casualty, then. And Spike could finally ask what had been on his mind for hours.

“Where do you think he is?”

Angel’s smile faded. “I don’t know. Why do you care?”

Spike shrugged and looked away. “I hope he’s all right,” he muttered. “That’s all.”

A voice rose behind them, shaking just a little.

“Define all right?”

Spike and Angel turned as one to face Connor. The boy was standing just a few feet away, hands in his pockets, looking a little awkward but standing tall. He wasn’t shaking. There even was the beginning of a smile just barely drawn on his lips.

Spike wanted to smile back, wanted to ask him a hundred questions, or even just say his name, but Angel beat him to that last part.

“Connor!”

Angel hadn’t even finished saying the boy’s name that he had already crossed the distance that separated them and drawn Connor into a fierce hug. For just a few seconds, shock flickered on Connor’s face, and he was as perfectly still as he had been in Hell when Angel had hugged him. Spike’s instinct was to pull Angel away before he could send the boy into panic mode, but before he could take more than a step toward them, Connor’s arms slowly came up around Angel until he was returning the hug. He closed his eyes for a moment, and his smile didn’t look so hesitant anymore. 

Maybe he really was all right, Spike thought, relief sweeping through him. The few people he had talked to had all said the same thing: they remembered those two years in Hell. All of them remembered it had been less than pleasant. Some of them remembered dying. Most would need some kind of psychological help, Spike supposed, although it really didn’t concern him and he didn’t need or want to know. He did want to know how Connor felt, though. Accepting a hug and returning it was great, but it would take more than that to satisfy Spike.

“You remember everything, don’t you?” Spike asked.

Connor opened his eyes again as he pulled away from Angel. He scratched at his neck with a finger, his eyes going back and forth between Angel and Spike. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Everything.”

“I’m so—” Angel started, but Connor interrupted him.

“No. You don’t have to be. It’s…” He shrugged, as though conceding in advance that the next word was less than adequate. “Ok, I guess. No scars. It’s like it didn’t really happen, you know? All a bad dream.”

Whatever Angel answered as he lightly touched Connor’s shoulder, Spike didn’t hear it. He had just noticed that Connor’s cheek was smooth, with no scar marring it, and nevermind that he could still feel that uneven line beneath his fingertips if he thought of that first shift to the future. Nevermind that he could still remember how warm Connor had been against him, how hard when-

But better not to think about it. That future would never happen, now.

He remembered telling Connor that just because he had hurt Spike in that second shift to the future didn’t mean he would do it again when the time came. And just because Spike had been ready to drain him dry, his fangs deep into that pale flesh and blood flooding his mouth with a sweetness he could still taste on the back of his tongue, didn’t mean he would do it either.

Spike was sure that was what Connor meant when he said it hadn’t happened. He really meant, it wouldn’t.

Slipping away unnoticed was almost too easy, but it confirmed to Spike that this was the best thing to do. The boy had found his father again. He didn’t need Spike to play babysitter anymore. He didn't need him at all - and Spike was used to that, he didn't care to be told as much anymore. Connor didn’t need either to risk coming back to that future, to that decision of giving his throat to Spike. Neither of them needed to risk that pain.

Morning was well on its way, and Spike couldn’t remember when he had last had a good few hours of sleep. He returned to his apartment, and while it was a far cry from the mansion he had lived in for two years, it had a comfortable enough bed, beer and blood in the fridge – and cigarettes.

Spike fed first; the battle had gone pretty well, but he still had a few scrapes to heal. Next he had a beer. Or maybe two or three. He wished he had had something stronger, but beers would do for now. Seated at the kitchen table, the empty bottles in front of him, he turned the brand new pack of cigarettes between his fingers. He had only had a handful in two years, and had craved a hit of nicotine every single time he had needed to deal with Illyria, or Spider, or any of the others, in fact. But now that he could have a cigarette – he could have the entire pack if he felt like it – he was coming to realize that it wasn’t so much the cigarettes he had missed. Instead, it was the normal world, where he could go and buy (or steal) cigarettes at the corner store any time he wanted. A world in which so much didn’t rest on his shoulders, and his decisions affected him, and no one else. He had that again, that freedom, and he didn’t really want a cigarette anymore. What he wanted instead was—

A timid knock on the door broke the silence and Spike’s train of thought. An unexpected flash of hope ran through him as he hurried to the door.

***

Connor lowered his hand and shifted from foot to foot. He was scared. He hated being scared. It wasn’t like him to be scared. Long ago, he had learned that fear was his enemy, that it had fangs and claws and could tear him apart faster and better than the most savage creature. Not so long ago, he had learned that he didn’t need to be afraid, not of anything, because he had people who loved him, who would do anything for him. And now… Now he would have to relearn that. He would have to relearn many things, in fact, including how not to flinch at every little noise, not to wince at every touch.

Finding Angel again had been… liberating. It wasn’t just that seeing him alive – or almost – had finally hammered it home that the nightmare was over. It wasn’t just the fact that Angel was all right, period, when for two years Connor had wondered so often what had happened to him. But by letting his father hug him – by making himself hug him back – Connor had proved something to himself. When Angel had done the same thing in Hell, it had taken all of Connor’s self control not to drop to his knees, overwhelmed by the unexpected physical contact. Accepting that same contact now had to mean that he wasn’t as damaged as he had feared.

His relief had been short lived. 

It had been relatively easy to talk to Angel when Spike was there, just a few feet away, keeping a sharp eyes on the two of them, and somehow his promise that no one would hurt Connor anymore had been at the back of Connor’s mind the entire time. He didn’t actually _believe_ that Angel could or would hurt him, but the fear was there, lurking, held at bay by the only person who hadn’t tried to hurt him in Hell. That bite didn’t count, because Connor had asked for it, and Spike had been too out of it to know any better anyway – or at least, that was what Connor had decided while he searched the city for Spike and his father.

But as soon as he had realized that Spike had left—

The door opened, and Connor blinked. He was breathing a little more easily already.

“Hey,” he said, feeling a bit foolish but unsure what else to say.

“Hey pet.” Spike’s eyebrows twitched in a not-quite frown. “How did you find me?”

“Angel,” Connor said, shrugging a little. “He showed me… I mean, he said you might be here.”

This time, the frown was unmistakable, and Spike looked behind Connor as though expecting Angel to be lurking there. “ _Angel_ told you where to find me?” he said, and he sounded incredulous. “ _Why_?”

Connor shrugged again. “Because I asked?” he replied, feeling a little uncomfortable. It wasn’t really a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either. Angel hadn’t been all that thrilled that Connor wanted to talk to Spike, and he had tried to convince him it was better that Spike had left already. Connor’s panic had put an end to that. Even now, he could still smell the acrid smell of fear clinging to him. He wondered if Spike could smell it too.

“Do you want to come in?” Spike asked after a few seconds.

Connor could have breathed a sigh of relief. “Yeah, I…” He lowered his eyes and repeated, more quietly now, “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Spike stepped aside and allowed Connor in. The apartment was small; the bedroom in the mansion could have fitted two like it. Then again, after the cage, it didn’t feel small at all.

“Beer?” Spike offered, already walking over to the fridge in the kitchenette. He threw a lopsided grin at Connor over his shoulder. “Are you even old enough to drink beer?”

Connor tried to return the grin. “Not according to my driver’s license, but it doesn’t count the last two years.”

Spike wasn’t smiling anymore when he came back and handed Connor a beer. “I guess you’re a bit too old for milk, yes.”

The bottle in Connor’s hand seemed to be shaking a little. He steadied his nerves by taking a sip.

Spike took a mouthful as well then said, “Do you want to sit down?” 

He sounded strangely formal as he asked it, like when he had invited Connor in or offered him a beer, as though he wasn’t sure at all how Connor would reply but would accept whatever answer he gave. He had done that a lot back in Hell too, Connor remembered as he walked over to the sofa. He sat down at one end and rested the bottle on his thigh. It felt cool and a little wet through the material of his pants.

“Why… why did you leave?” he asked when Spike had joined him on the sofa.

“You and… Angel looked like you had a lot to catch up on.”

Connor nodded, then took another sip. “We do,” he said quietly. “But we’re not too good at talking. Not together, I mean.”

The chuckle that rose from Spike was pure warmth. “Angel’s not good at talking with _anyone_ ,” he said as though confiding a secret, and Connor smiled.

“Yeah, I know. But I can’t throw stones. I’m not good at it either.”

He drank a little deeper this time, and regretted it right away. Maybe Spike would expect him to go away once he finished his beer. There were only a couple of fingers left in the bottle. He rested it on his leg again and held himself very stiffly.

“I don’t mind,” Spike said, and only continued when Connor looked at him questioningly. “I don’t mind if you’re not good at talking. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Connor wondered if that included leaving.

They were quiet for a little while. Connor wanted to drink again, but he didn’t dare to, not since it would mean emptying his bottle.

Without warning, Spike rose from the sofa, and Connor was startled enough that he almost jumped to his feet too. If Spike noticed, he didn’t show it, and merely picked up the remote control from the top of the television and set it on the low table in front of Connor.

“Turn it on if you want to,” he said as he walked away. “I’ll grab a refill.”

Connor’s fingers twitched on his thigh and he glanced twice toward the kitchenette before he finally picked up the remote. The first five channels were all news reports talking about Hell. Connor didn’t really want or need to hear about that. He kept changing channels until he found some kind of nature documentary. He didn’t care for the commentary so he hit the mute button, but the images were nice. Some colorful birds building a nest, drinking nectar from flowers. Completely innocuous – and all that much nicer for it.

Spike returned with two beers, and set one on the table without a word. It took Connor a few long minutes before he managed to empty his first bottle and swap it for the full one. He cast a furtive glance toward Spike when he did, and caught the flicker of a smile on his lips. He couldn’t begin to fathom what Spike found amusing.

“It’s weird,” he said after a little while when the birds had been replaced by advertisement.

“What is?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely at the apartment. “Drinking beer. Watching some show on tv.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Not wearing a collar anymore.”

Spike sighed. “It’ll pass, luv. Fade. You’ll forget, eventually. We’ll all forget.”

“What about…” His lips felt very dry suddenly and he passed his tongue over them. “What about the shifts? Will I forget that too?” 

From the corner of his eye, he could see Spike’s face turning toward him. Connor remained very still, feigning interest in the commercials.

“I guess it’s up to you if you do forget them or not,” Spike said slowly. 

Connor almost wanted to laugh. His head was already full of memories of nice things that had never happened and less nice ones that had. If it had been that easy to pick and choose, he would have cleaned up his mind already, but it wasn’t so simple. 

Ditching the memories of Quortoth meant forgetting how to fight. Erasing Jasmine from his mind meant giving up on Cordelia – the real Cordelia, before everything had turned out so very wrong. Choosing the perfect childhood meant abandoning Angel. Forgetting Hell meant forgetting Spike, and those glimpses into the future. Connor didn’t want the second one to become true, he never wanted to hurt anyone like that again, and the key to that was to remember what he needed _not_ to do. But he didn't want either to forget the first shift to the future, and how warm he had felt in that bed, with Spike curled around him. Warm, and safe, in the arms of a cold-blooded predator.

As warm and safe as he felt now.

Life was funny, sometimes.

Very slowly, inch by inch, he let himself slide sideways. Long before Connor actually touched him, Spike became very still, not even bringing the bottle to his lips anymore, as though afraid to scare Connor away.

“Do I have to leave after I finish my beer?” Connor asked when his head was finally resting against Spike’s shoulder

Spike shifted a little, slipping his hand behind Connor and resting it on his hip. “Told you before, love. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Connor closed his eyes. He had thought it was weird at first, but now he was thinking he could get used to Spike calling him ‘love’. 

In a way, he already was.


End file.
